A Necklace Of Thorns
by DaGeekGoddesses
Summary: Every problem in Pete's life has congregated to this. Angels, Demons, tattoos, the general supernatural, music, and Chicago intersect in this story. *Features MCR, FOB, P!ATD, Para, Cobra, and many more!*
1. Ch 1: This Is Just The Prologue

__**A/N: It was only a matter of time before I'd write this.**

**Yes, I am back with more bandom. Pairings, this time. As in, shipping-and-slashing. As in, read this at your own risk.**

**Some things you should know. 1: THERE WILL BE NO EXPLICIT SCENES. Sorry if that just warded off all you perverts, but I don't write that shit. We just need to know what happened, smut, in my book, is strictly off the page. 2: COUPLES WILL COME OUT OF NOWHERE. Some of them have been planned, others will just _appear_. 3: A LOT OF THE MATERIAL HAS BEEN POORLY RESEARCHED. The vast majority has come from my imagination, my interpretation, and the little knowledge I retain. 4: THE WHOLE BANDOM HAS BEEN CRAMMED INTO THIS STORY. So has more than just them.**

**YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

**For any of you regular readers of my work, some announcements: be on the lookout for a story I've been working on with the lovely Inu-Chan the music friend. It should be due BY the end of this year. Second: I am still working on ALL my stories. No doubt. However, you may not have regular updates for a while. Why? IB Program. I am going to dig myself into the ground for the chance that I MIGHT get into a really good college when I get to that point. I might not be able to find the time to write. I love you all, and I wish I could still have (relatively) regular posts, but it's gonna get pretty random. I'm sorry.**

**Alright, you beautiful people. Enjoy.**

**~Sunshine**

_Sertum Spinarum._

It was what he had been named. But that was simply formal. Most knew him as The One With the Thorns Around His Neck. And he liked it that way.

He tightens the black, woolen cloak around him, shivering. The Mortals called, still call, this place fiery. An oven to cook the evil. Eternal Damnation in the form of fire, yadda yadda yadda, demons and succubi, criminals against God, Let the sinners burn among them, all that jazz.

Bullshit. Hell was plain fucking cold. Even for him.

And he hated it.

He had always wondered what head would be like. Real heat. Not the fire that came from his hands. But... Like... The sun.

Yet Hell was what you made it out to be. Hell was everything you hated and nothing of what you wanted. People could interpret it in any way. He recalls one woman, a paranoid schizophrenic in life, who imagined this, quite literally, God-forsaken place as her institution, filled to the brim with all her nightmares. He had never heard screaming so violent, so tortured, so damn frightening before.

Sharp nails dig into his shoulder through the cloak, fake, reptilian warmth burns through the stiff, dark fabric, and a pair of chapped lips snake their way next to his ear, lips that belong to a sadistic-sounding and raspy voice.

"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again."

He feels himself tensing. "Whaddya want?"

"Just... Doing some favors for my master-"

"What the fuck are you _talking_ about?"

"Oh, but my dear Spinarum, you know." The form moves its lips away from his ear, and composes itself in front of him. The form is made of smoke and electricity, chaotic and destructive. It's vaguely masculine, but who could know with this thing?

"No, actually, I don't."

The force of pain hits him like a bullet to the head. It's too much, even for him. A scream erupts from his mouth.

And all the stupid little smoke demon does is laugh.

"Naww, too much for The One With The Thorns Around His Neck? Is he _screaming?_" The monstrous cackles end. "Tough shit. Pay, _Demon."_

A stab in his back, a final shriek, and everything's being torn away.

What-

Who-

Where-

Please Help-

_Who am I?_

* * *

USA Today - Sunday, April 21, 2013

Earthquake in Los Angeles

Following the 5.6-magnitude earthquake in LA on Wednesday, the governor of California is demanding cleanup, and is asking for 300 M in bailout money from the Federal Government.

* * *

"Hey, Kezia, you wanted the soy chai, right?"

I look up to the curly-haired guy who's currently passing out the 8:30 coffee fix. After he passes Kezia's part of the counter in the employee's area, he nudges my shoulder, and hands me a large, plastic tumbler.

"Double-shot latte with vanilla syrup?" He asks, although the guy knows the order by heart now. Damn, the baristas must know it, too. All of our orders.

But I take the coffee with a large smile. "Thanks for the coffee run, Joe."

He rolls his eyes as he crosses the room to hand a black coffee with what may be seven cubes of sugar in it to Jon, who looks particularly scruffy today with the beginnings of a goatee and a ripped t-shirt. "Pete, you're the only one who thanks me out of all these idiots-"

"Joe Trohman, you are a great man for bringing us the morning coffee," Jon cuts in.

"Fucking suck-up," Joe mutters under his breath. He hands a mocha to Spencer. The stocky, bearded, retro-clothed guy takes it with a smile and a nod. He finishes with the skinny latte for Amy, and then throws the cardboard carrying case away, sipping at his plain, black, masculine coffee. That stuff must taste like, I dunno, fucking petroleum or something. Acid.

"So, what now?" Amy practically yells. Loud Amy. Obnoxious Amy. Funny Amy. Typical Amy. She's sipping green tea, no doubt. Her eyebrow piercing glints in the light.

Spencer shrugs. "Dunno, our jobs?"

Jon snickers at that one. I swear, those two are so close. I'm surprised they aren't together.

"Asshole."

Spencer winks back.

"You're all assholes," Joe declares, "Let's open up shop."

* * *

"So, how long have you been doing this?"

I look up. "What?"

"How long have you been inking tattoos?" The girl looks up at me from laying down on the table. She has flaming orange hair that I'm betting is dyed, green eyes, and a wicked, lopsided grin. A leg of her loose, black-gray-and-red plaid shorts has been pulled up so I can tattoo her thigh. She wanted a cross. Loves her religion.

"Um, I dunno, a few years now?" I swallow deeply and lean over the design with the needle again while she lays back on the table.

"That's cool. I have an old friend who does tattoos back in Tennessee. I make easy friends with 'too artists. I'm Hayley." She lets loose her crazy grin once again.

"I'm Pete."

"Pete. I haven't heard that name on a guy younger than forty in... I dunno, forever? How old are you, exactly?"

"Twenty-three."

"Cool. How long have you worked here?"

"Almost as long as I've been inking tattoos. Three years, maybe."

"Three years... Oh, my God, you must be double-shot latte with vanilla syrup!" She squeals, her eyes lighting up.

"How do you-"

"I work at the coffee shop. I've been making that order for three years! Oh, my God, I can't believe it's you! I thought you were a chick!"

I glare. "Excuse me?"

"Well, the vanilla syrup kind of got me-"

"Are you saying that you thought I was a girl because I like vanilla syrup in my coffee?" I raise an eyebrow, slightly smirking. "Have you ever tried it?"

She shrugs. "No, I'm more of a hazelnut syrup person."

We share a smile, and I get back to working on her tattoo.

"By the way, my roomate enjoys vanilla syrup. He's very straight, and I know you were about to pull that card on me."

"Maybe."

I continue the tattoo in silence.

"I hope you don't mind me asking-"

"I'm not gay."

"Really?"

"I'm bi."

"Oh, okay."

"Hope you don't mind."

"Are you serious? One of my coworkers is gay." Her eyes alight. "He and his boyfriend are so cute together! You have no idea."

"Mm-hmm."

"You really don't care, do you?"

"Well, it's someone else's personal life, and I'm kind of more focused on your tattoo right now. Last part."

She rolls her eyes. "Alright. Touche. But still."

"Yeah, still. Hey, your tattoo's done. I'm just gonna wrap it now. You gotta keep a bandage on for the next week, disinfect it at least three times a day, and don't get anything weird in it, hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, no problem." She smiles at me as I hand her a bottle of disinfectant, having finished wrapping the ink.

"Anyways, thanks, Pete. Come by the shop sometime."

I nod before she turns to leave. "I'll try."

* * *

"I'm gonna be moving out next week."

I look up at the guy who is currently removing Chinese takeout from the fridge. "Wuh?"

"I said, I'm gonna be moving out of the apartment next week. It's gonna be yours. You're gonna have to keep up the rent, but it's gonna be your apartment." The guy runs a hand through his strawberry blonde hair, scratches his sideburns, and goes to find chopsticks.

"Dude, you serious?"

"Yeah. I'm moving in with Zania next week."

"So you guys are actually serious."

"Fuck you."

I stand up to hug him. "My baby boy is growing up! I thought you'd be a bachelor forever-"

"Pete, go away."

"Fine." I pause. "But seriously, dude, you are that type. You play drums and guitar. You live with a tattoo artist. For the love of all things good, you're eating week-old takeout!"

He looks down at the Kung Pao tofu, and stops chewing. "Waitwhat?"

"Yeah, dude, that's a week old."

He ponders for a second, then resumes chewing. "Whatever, still tastes good."

"Exactly, total bachelor."

"You know what? I take back the 'fuck you'. Not worth my time."

"Patrick, you love me."

"Yeah."

"I didn't hear that."

He sighs, exasperated. "Yeah, Pete, I love you. I just love my girlfriend of two years a helluvalot more."

I tense up, and he realizes what he said. "Oh, dude, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-"

"It's okay." I get up from the couch once more, and look for something to eat in the fridge. "Whatever, I'm not gonna hurt you over it."

I sift through the contents of the old machine. Takeout, pizza, beer, beer, beer, something moldy, beer...

"Why do you hate that word? Hell."

My shoulders stiffen; I relax them. "I dunno. Just... Something bad."

I decide the pizza is safe enough; I remove it from a shelf, close the fridge, and make my way to the counter, my fingers tingling, chest tightening-

"HOLY FUCK!" I scream, dropping the pizza box on the ground. It hurts. It hurts.

Patrick grabs my wrist and pulls it under the sink, turning the cold water on. As the stream hits my fingertips, they begin to steam, creating a strange light while it clashes with the lightbulbs, but the tingling begins to stop.

When the sensation has finished, I nod, muttering, "'Trick, I'm fine."

He shuts the water off, and lets go of my wrist. The fingertips of my right hand are now charred black. I look down at the abandoned pizza box, which has been seared from my outburst.

My roomate breathes deeply. "Why does this shit happen to you?"

"I dunno, dude! I just, lemme think, sauntered on in being able to shoot _fucking fire_from my _fucking _

_fingertips_! I don't know why it happens." I pick the pizza box up, and toss it on the counter, where it lands with a _slam._ "I'm not hungry anymore." I lean against the counter, panting heavily. "It's so messed up."

Patrick lays a hand on my shoulder. "Pete. Pete. Hey, Pete."

"...Yuh-huh?"

"I don't know why, either. I just... Maybe we should take you to, like, a mystic, or a priest, or something."

I roll my eyes. "Dude, a priest? What kind of bullshit are you feeding me? And who's we?"

"Kezia and I."

"Why Kezia?"

"She's the only other one that knows, right?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

"We'll take you in next week how about that?"

"No."

"We're still gonna drag you. I'll ask Kezzie about it."

This is going to suck. I know it.

* * *

"Lemme in, I need to speak to Gabe."

The bouncer looks at me with his stony face, but it breaks, morphing into a kind grin. A baritone voice booms, "Hey, you're his scrawny little tattooist friend, aren't you? His personal therapist. C'mon in."

As he lets me pass through the doors to the club, people complain behind me. "Why does he get to go

in?"

"Shuttup, he has business with one of our employees!"

I snake my way through the packed, overheated club, channeling through slamming bodies and uncompelling dubstep, until I make it to the back, where three bartenders are pouring drinks like rapid fire.

I lean over the counter to get close to one of them, a guy the height of a professional basketball player.

"Gabe."

The guy turns around, and his dark eyes widen in delight. "Hey, Pete! Wattup, man, long time, no see, huh?"

"Haha, yeah. Listen, I need to talk to you, can you get off shift soon?"

"Um, yeah, let me check." He turns to another bartender, only slightly shorter than him. "Yo, Ryan, when's ten thirty?"

"You got five." The other bartender turns, and he grins, nodding to me. "Pete."

"Hey, Ryan." I smirk. "See, everyone knows me here!"

"Yeah, they do," Gabe sighs, "Meet me in the back in five, okay? You know the code."

"Alright, see you when your shift gets off."

I begin to glide through the club again, and make it to a door with a keypad; I type in, 1969. A click manages to resonate through the booming of the club, and I slip in.

It's so much quieter in here. I sigh, and make my way into the storage room for the booze. I consider cracking into the vodka, but I know it'll cost the club. Besides, I don't want to be getting back to the apartment wasted. I told Patrick that I'd be on a walk. He doesn't know that I'm hanging with Gabe.

He also doesn't know that Gabe isn't completely in the dark about the weird shit that happens to me.

I hear a door open, and the tall man slides into the room. Now that I can see him better, he looks really fucking tired: His short, dark curls are wet from the sweat of frustration, his fancy-ass button-up shirt and vest have gone askew, and he's panting heavily. Indigo crescents hang under his coffee eyes.

"Hey, Pete." He leans over from where I'm sitting on a couple boxes to hug me, and I return the embrace.

He looks back as he draws away, finds another box, and plops himself on it. "Is something wrong, dude?"

I laugh humorlessly. "You won't believe this."

"I believe the majority of what you say. What's it this time?"

"Well... Patrick is organizing for him and Kezzie to take me to a priest next week."

He stares at me, and starts guffawing, loud, boisterous peals of laughter. "You're killing me, Wentz, are you serious?"

"More than a heart attack."

He immediately stops laughing. "Wuh?" He coughs. "Are you serious? Is this about the whole..." To finish his comment, he holds out a hand, slides the other under it, and makes flaring gestures with the second hand.

"Yeah. I think 'Trick believes I'm possessed."

"Oh, God, that Zania chick must be unhealthy for him."

"No, she's a nice girl. And a pre-med student. And agnostic."

"Oh."

"Yeah." I smirk. "Just thought I'd let you know."

"Nice thing to let me know about."

"Sorry, dude. What's ailing you?"

"Nothing."

His voice is sincere, his eyes reveal the lie.

"What the fuck's wrong?"

"Nothing, Petey, I swear-"

"Gabe-"

"There is nothing happening-"

"Gabe-"

"Pete, just calm down-"

"Gabe!"

He shuts up.

"Look, I know when there's something wrong with you. You've been my best friend since I moved to Chicago five years ago, Patrick excluded. I know when something's off with you. What's wrong?"

He sighs. "Don't make fun of me, okay?"

"Dude, I'm a tattoo artist who shoots fire from his fingertips. I swear, I won't make fun of you."

"A-A-A-Alright." He coughs. "So, Andy."

"So, Andy. My boss. Your friend whom you convinced to hire me."

"Yeah. About him... He has this friend in town."

"I'm listening."

"And he's kind of... Off, y'know? I'm warning you right now, I met the guy a couple years ago. Like, he stares at people oddly, and he's always wearing at least a hoodie, and he's got, like, this mysterious air about him. And he's really quiet, and weird. Good looking, I'll admit-"

"And you'll also admit that you're not totally straight-"

"But just, I dunno, _off._ Like, he's waiting for something. It scares the shit out of me. I really was hoping he

wouldn't come back. You don't have an idea of how scared I am."

"I don't."

"You don't."

"No, I don't." I clear my throat. "Will I be expecting to meet him?"

"I dunno. Depends on Andy."


	2. Ch 2: That's Just Who I Am This Week

**A/N: So, I kind of forgot what day I post this fic, so I'm just doing it now.**

**So, I have, alas, started the school year (kids, school is pointless, and teachers are full of lies, so give back and just write wordy, professional-looking bullshit and you'll pass), and since now, I have NO HOMEWORK for the REST OF THE NIGHT and possibly the WEEKEND, I'm gonna post this. Is that cool?**

**So, the other half of the monster, the lazy one, and the Ravenclaw, Moonray, is BACK IN BUSINESS! She decided that, since Don't Wanna Dance was a few short chapters away from being done when she began posting it, that she would finish it Which she will be doing. Then, we're gonna post the hell outta that fic. I'll tell you when it's up, if you don't have us on Story/Author Alerts. Second, the Panic! compilation I am doing with Inu-Chan the music friend is under way! That might be arriving within the next 8-12 weeks, depending on how long it'll take us to keep writing our fics and crank out these stories. Just thought I'd let you know. **

**Lastly, just enjoy chappie two of this, and disregard my lack of knowledge. Also, I forgot my disclaimer. Here it goes:**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the members of Fall Out Boy; My Chemical Romance; Paramore; Panic! At The Disco; Cobra Starship; anyone else involved in the great big shipping mess that is the bandom; musicians in general. I also do not own the City of Chicago, Spooners Yogurt, anyone I mention who could sue me, and a copy of the Bible.  
**

**Enjoy!**

**~Sunshine**

I'm taking another sip of my latte when Andy walks into the employee's room, some guy in tow.

"Alright, muthafuckas." The tattooed, long haired, bespectacled guy claps his hands together.

Joe raises an eyebrow. "I can assure you, Andy, that I have never fucked my mother."

"Haha, cute. Anyways, as you may or may not know, depending on how often you go drinking with me, that I have a friend coming. And he's here, staying at my place while he finds a home here in Chicago, since he didn't have the best of luck in Newark. Ladies and Gents, meet Mikey." He grabs the guy from behind him, and pushes him forward.

Holy shit.

He's skinny, no doubt, clad in dark wash jeans that could have been painted on his legs, and a loose, black pullover hoodie with the sleeves shoved past his elbows, and a Smashing Pumpkins logo. Smashing Pumpkins. Sounds familiar. A beanie sits on light brown strands of hair that fold straight against his forehead, the hat's edge hanging off the back of his head. Black-and-white horn rimmed glasses sit perched on his nose, and his face... There was something otherworldly about it, every detail about it: his straight-bridged nose, full lips, deep set, honey eyes, and strong jawline-

What am I saying?

Snap out of it, Pete!

He flashes a closed-mouth smile to everyone in the room, but his gaze lingers on me a little, changes... Odd.

"He's gonna be hanging around the business today, since it's his first couple days here in Chicago, so let him into your workspace or I will deny you of the beer in the fridge." A slurry of complaints. "No buts. Let's open the shop up."

I chug the last of my coffee in the room, while everyone else scatters into other areas of the building. Andy leaves for his office, but his friend stays.

"So... Whaddya do here?"

"What? Oh, I... Ink tattoos." I swallow more coffee to stop myself from saying more. "You have any ink?"

"Oh, no, none."

"None? You serious?"

"Yeah. I've... Never seen a reason to get one, so..."

"Oh, I see. Don't sweat it, dude, I'm not gonna judge you." I swish the coffee around to check the amount I have left. "So, what were you doing in Newark?"

"In... Oh! Um... I'm... From... New Jersey, so that's why I was living there, but then, when I lost my job, my rent spiked, and I couldn't pay it anymore. So, I spent the last of my savings here to look for a place. I want to get a job, maybe get into college if I can get a scholarship..."

"Dude, you're really fucking hopeful. How old are you?"

He smirks. "Depends. How old are you?"

Oh, this guy's one smooth fucker.

"Twenty-three."

His face smooths into seriousness. "Twenty-two."

"Shouldn't you be-"

"Graduating?" He shrugs. "Never had enough money to attend, neither did I have the qualifications for scholarships. I was... Homeschooled, so..."

"Ooh. That sucks, dude." I finish my coffee, chuck the tumbler into the trash, and turn to him. "Dude, come to my room. I usually don't have too much business, so you can continue talking."

"What about you? Do you have a degree?"

"No. I... I managed to get enough money, and people were kind enough to give me a ride, that I ended up here in Chicago when I was eighteen. Before that, I spent my years working odd jobs, mostly minimum wage, in LA. When I got here, these two guys - Gabe and Patrick - took me in. Gabe, by then, had started working as a bartender, and Patrick was in the middle of getting his music degree. I started living with them, and then just Patrick when Gabe got his own place."

"Wait," the guy says as we walk into my room, "Gabe Saporta? The really tall, Uruguayan guy?"

"He's Uruguayan? I thought he was Ecuadorian."

"Either way, we know the same guy." He pulls up one of the spare stools in the room, sets it down, and sits on it, facing me. "How's he doing?"

"Gabe? He's fine. He's a cashier at a Spooners downtown, and a bartender at some club at night."

"Wow."

"Yeah." I facepalm. "I'm sorry, I'm bad with names."

"It's okay. So am I."

"I'm Pete. Pete Wentz."

"Mikey. Mikey Way." He smiles a little.

We start talking about random shit. When he asks about Patrick, I avidly begin describing the man.

"Patrick? He's a character. He always wears either a trucker hat or a fedora, and he has these ridiculous sideburns. It's like he taped squirrel hide to his face or something-" Mikey giggles a little, surprisingly high in comparison to his husky, morning-voice inflection.

I think I feel myself blushing.

"-And... Oh, he plays guitar, and drums, and he sings really well, but he always denies it. Like, the guy should be famous by now, but pop star fucktards are making it instead. And he will never accept that he's a complete bachelor! He's always eating food that's forever old. And his girlfriend! He's moving in with her next week. Her name's Zania Estrada. She's Spanish-American, and she's currently finishing up her pre-med. Wants to be a surgeon. How those two ended up together is beyond my understanding."

"You said he played guitar and sang well?"

"Yeah, why?"

He shrugs, crossing his arms. "It's obvious. He sat on the ledge of her window with a guitar, serenaded her, and then pulled out a dozen red roses. Guys who can sing get away with shit like that."

My jaw drops. "Wuh?"

"That never crossed your mind?"

"No."

He stares at me, his large, honey eyes widening behind his glasses.

Then, he laughs.

No, he _guffaws._

He slowly stops laughing, and sighs, quieting himself. "Wow, you're dense." He clears his throat. "So, the chick that does piercings."

"Kezia?"

"That's her name? Where's it from?"

"I dunno. I think she said it was Hebrew or something. What about her?"

"Her ears. What's up with that?"

"Oh. Oh! You're not used to them." I chuckle. "Kezzie got plastic surgery on her ears a few years back. She always wanted elf ears, if you ask her. She's a total freak, but we all love her."

He raises an eyebrow. "But, after she paid for the cartilage of her ears to be lengthened three inches and pointed... So, all those cartilage piercings are... Through_plastic?_"

"Yeah." I smile.

"She's weird."

"Yeah, we all are."

We turn to look at the tall, auburn-haired girl who's now leaning against the door.

"Oh, Hey, Kez."

"I heard you two talking about me. Specifically, my ears. Do you have a problem with them?"

"Not at all!" Mikey exclaims, "I just think they're... interesting."

She raises an eyebrow, widening her dark brown, almost red, eyes. "Yuh-huh. Hey, Pete? I need to borrow you for a quick second, is that okay? Just a minute at the most."

"Oh! Alright."

I stand up, and follow her out of the room.

She closes the door, and stares at me. "So, 'Trick arranged the thing with one of the Father's at the Catholic church downtown."

I exhale heavily. "You're kidding."

"No. When we asked him what was wrong, he said that, in their opinion, you're either possessed, or part demon."

"Do you really believe this shit, Kezia? I'm _possessed?_ Please don't tell me that they're gonna fucking _exorcise _me."

"Peter Wentz, you shoot fire from your fingertips when people mention a certain unholy Biblical place. I wouldn't doubt what they say."

"Yeah, but, the _Catholic Fucking Church?_ Why them?"

"Because that's what your roomate decided."

"What does Zania have to say?"

"She doesn't know about the fire thing. She's Catholic, so she has faith in the church, but she thinks that we're crazy by thinking you're possessed."

"Yeah, no shit."

"Pete, just... Go back to you're room, alright? You have until Friday."

"It's Tuesday."

"Yeah?"

"Well... Can't the fucking Father give me a week?"

"Pete, this is _urgent._ You could _kill _someone."

"I haven't yet. I try to be careful."

"Haven't you realized it, asshole? If someone _says_ that word, you freak out. What if the FBI detains you or something-"

"Kez."

"They could put you in an institution, or do tests on you-"

"Kezzie."

"What if they turn you into a superweapon to use against the Chinese, or the North Koreans-"

"Kezia!"

She inhales. "What?"

"Can you hear yourself? You're rambling. The government is not gonna take me to kill off the world's dictators. They're just never gonna find out. I can look after myself, love."

"Sure you can."

She saunters off down the hall. I walk back into my room, and Mikey looks up. "Catholic church?"

I laugh nervously. "Kezzie's... Trying to convert me."

"You're kidding."

"No," I laugh nervously, "She's getting me to talk to a Father on Friday."

"Huh." He looks at me, smiling, but his eyes show disbelief.

Disbelief and suspicion.

"Pete! Pete! Pete, is that you? Pete!"

I turn around to see a girl with tangerine hair, dressed in a black and white shirt and fuchsia skinnies, running to me. "Pete!"

I stop, rotating my body and smiling. "Hayley!"

She slows her run, gives me a quick, but enthusiastic, hug, and pulls away, grinning madly. "How are ya?"

"Great! I just got off my shift, and I saw you walking down the street, so I decided to catch up with ya. What's up?"

"Not much. Hey, how's your tattoo healing up?"

"Oh, great. It's still covered, but the scars are starting to sink. It's turning out really great! Thanks." She chuckles a little. "Hey, wanna go over to Spooners? I'm kind of in a frozen yogurt mood."

I laugh. "My friend Gabe works there. That's his day job."

"No way, you serious?" She grins. "We should meet him!"

"Um, yeah, sure-"

"Why not?"

"I dunno..."

She grabs my wrist. "Come on."

We start trudging through crowded, downtown streets, ignoring stares from passerbys. After all, guy with several tattoos and girl with neon hair?

We make it to a brightly colored shop with a pink, green, and white logo. "I swear, frozen yogurt chains always have pink and white in their logos."

"Yeah, no shit."

We walk in, and a familiar, tall guy looks up. "Hey, you!"

"Yo!" I laugh.

"Who's your lady friend?"

Hayley scoffs. "Lady friend? Just a friend."

Not even hesitating, I grab a paper bowl and make an immediate beeline to the fluffernutter dispenser.

"That's nasty," Hayley mutters, "_fluffernutter?_"

"It's the best."

"Yeah, sure," She mumbles, crossing to another dispenser, marked as key lime pie.

The rest is a blur, involving cookies by the pound, slipping ten bucks out of my wallet, getting change, and laughing with Gabe and Hayley over sugar until a guy and his two daughters approach the register, giving the three of us dirty glares.

"Hi there," Gabe exclaims, "Can I help you?"

"Hey, Gabe, I should get going anyway," I say, "Great seeing ya."

"Same. Hayley, it was a pleasure to meet you."

"Um, alright, I guess I'll see you sometime." She raises a hand to wave, but Gabe grabs it, pulls it to his face, and kisses the back. Hayley's alabaster skin immediately flushes to scarlet.

"I'll be seeing you too, Hayley."

We walk out, and as soon as we're out of earshot, Hayley starts babbling. "Oh, my God, he is so charming! And he's tall! And he's good looking! And he's so sweet, and he's all for animal rights, and-"

"Hayley, don't fall for him. From what I've heard, he was a huge whore in high school."

"High school, Pete."

"So?"

"Yeah, and he's probably past college by now? I think he's a great guy. Oh, I have to go back there! Why didn't I give him my number-"

"Hayles."

"Yeah?"

"Calm down."

She sighs dramatically, trying to mock me, but her phone rings, blasting something that sounds like Jimmy Eat World. "Hold on." She pulls out a bubblegum-cased phone and answers. "Hello?" Sigh. "No, Mom, I'm fine."

"That your mom?"

She nods. "No, Mom, that's not my boyfriend!" I feel myself going red. "No, a friend! I've been single for the last eight months! Yes, Mom, I've been going to church, I've been taking communion, I haven't sinned. Don't worry. Holy crap, Mom, why are you calling me? You're talking to a family counselor? You want me back in Nashville? Mom, I'm making more money in Chicago. No, that was forever ago! I was fourteen! I don't want to go back to that!... I'm hanging up now. Mom. Mom. Bye now. Bye, love ya."

She hangs up abruptly.

"What. A. Bitch!" The vermillion-haired girl exclaims, garnering stares from passerbys.

"Your mother wants you back in Nashville?"

She nods. "Yeah. It's... Complicated."

I chuck my empty paper bowl into a nearby trash can. "I got time."

She sighs. "I used to sing. And play piano. And drums. Still kinda do. But... When I was fourteen, my parents talked to some people they knew with various connections, and got me signed onto Atlantic Records."

"...Wow, when you were that young?"

"Yeah, I know, right?" She laughs humorlessly, "I wanted to be a punk act. Kind of like Avril Lavigne, but I'd never go pop. But... I wanted to start a band, too. I wanted to make it big. I wanted to help people, y'know? Tell them that they're fine. That nothing's wrong with them. That they're who they are, and should stay that way. But my mother wanted me to become some hugeass pop princess. Probably with the celebrity marriage and divorce, the scandal, the documentary, the scandals on the cover of People Magazine, too. I didn't want that. So, I did everything I could until I got dropped from the label. I finished high school, said goodbye, and then left for Chicago the next day. Dye my hair. Make new friends. Start fresh. I wanted to become who I was meant to be. But, since, I've been stuck with a few friends, a crazy roomate, a job at an indie coffeeshop, and a status close to fucking nowhere."

"Damn. I'm sorry."

We're ducking into the alley on the side of Andy's shop, and I start striding to the side door.

"And now, my mother was screaming about how she doesn't think I go to church! She's screaming about how I'm gonna get possessed by a demon."

My hand freezes on the doorknob. "Wuh?"

Hayley leans against the door to look at me. "Yeah, she was screaming about getting exorcised, and I'm a sinner because I'm not a virgin and I wear makeup and dye my hair, and how I'm gonna end up a Satanist, and I'm gonna go to fucking Hell. You hear me, Pete?"

I hoarsely whisper, "oh, shit," and hold my right hand as far away from Hayley as possible. "Hayles, get back."

"Why, Pete? Was that yogurt bad? Don't tell me you're about to puke on me - OH CHRIST PETE WHAT'S HAPPENING?"

"There's water in my bag!" I scream, flinging the messenger bag off my shoulder, trying to hide the fire from passerbys desperately. Hayley opens the bag, finds the bottle, hastens to open it, and, with a scream, flails the water onto my fingers.

_hisssssssss._

The flame-haired girl stares at me with utter shock as she lets the emptied, plastic bottle clatter to the asphalt ground. I tumble to my knees, clutching my still smoking hand.

"P-P-P-Pete, w-wh-wha-what j-just happened?" I shake my head, and she falls to my height as well, curling her arms over my shoulders into an awkward, frightened embrace. "Pete, please, just _tell me._"

"You... I... Dunno, Hay. I really don't know."

But... You knew this was going to happen."

I just nod.

"Pete, you will tell me right now."

Yeah, I'm screwed.


	3. Ch 3: I'll Stop The Whole World

**A/N: AAAAAAAAH!**

**You guys, I SWEAR I thought I posted last week, but apparently, I mistook this last week for the week before, I'm so sorry and I'm an idiot and please don't kill me if you actually care about this story.**

**Please. It's been hard. I have been so uninspired this last week, I can't write without hating what I write. I need help. I need so much help, so if you want to be of assistance, go ahead, because I need it, alright?**

***Ahem* So, here's the new chapter, and could I please get some reviews on this? And other stories? Pwease? Pwetty Pwease? I love you all!... So do it, don't be shy.**

**Also, happy September, because it's that late in the year already! Don't get eaten by the monsters under your bed!**

**~Sunshine**

Patrick looks up from his guitar.

"Patrick I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-the-rest-of-your-name-is, humor me. Tell me what on God's Great Earth is wrong with your roomate."

I'm shoved forward, and Patrick immediately notices the burn marks. He pulls me to the kitchen, has me sit on one of the barstools that's tucked underneath the separation counter, and goes to get aloe from the medicine cabinet. As he pours the green-colored goop on my fingers, he turns to Hayley, still standing in the entryway. "I don't know who you are, but you better sit down, too. And my last name is Stump."

"Patrick Stump," she mutters, "Hayley Williams."

"Nice to meet you, Hayley."

"Same."

They share a tense, understanding smile, before Patrick sighs. "Tell me everything, both of you."

We start from when Hayley caught up with me after getting off her shift. She realizes that she has to be back in thirty minutes, and calls her boss, saying that she's going to be late, given that she was 'taking a sick friend back home.' We recount getting frozen yogurt, even the call from her mother, and Hayley's story with her and the music industry.

When we get to the part at the alley, Hayley asks, "Do you have pen and paper? I don't want to repeat anything if Pete's gonna shoot fire from his hands."

Patrick nods, leaving the kitchen to rip paper from one of his notebooks, grab a pencil, and cross the apartment once again, handing the supplies to Hayley. She sticks her tongue out as she writes a list of words. She gives the list up to Pat, who reads over them. His eyes begin to widen, and when he hands the list back, saying, "shit, Hayley, I haven't said that much in one sitting before. Cool it."

She chuckles humorlessly.

"Whaddya think?"

"'Bout what?"

"'Bout Pete's... Condition."

"Fuck you both, are you really gonna talk like I'm not here?"

"Kezia - the piercer chick with the elf ears - and I are taking him to a priest on Friday."

"Lemme come with you."

"Why?"

"Oh, joy, more freaks to hang around while I get crucified."

"Judging by the looks of this place, you and Pete are the most unfaithful, sloppy, motherfucking _bacherlors_ I've seen in a while. And that's saying something after you meet Jeremy Davis and Taylor York. Got, what nutjobs." She clears her throat. "I doubt Kezia's religious either. Me? I go to church every Sunday. I take communion. I've gone to Confessions quite a few times. I have a pretty good record with the church. I'd stand much longer in the eyes of a priest than any of you would."

Patrick crosses eyesight with me.

We both nod.

* * *

"Thanks, dude, this is gonna look fucking awesome!" The kid exclaims, as he leaves the room.

Mikey's in my room again. He was leaning over me the whole time I was doing that last tattoo, breathing down my neck, making my hairs stand and my palms sweat.

Is this fear or attraction?

The kids tattoo was cool, though. Some kid getting a Chinese dragon that started on his back and swirled around his bicep. It actually looked really fucking awesome, if I say so myself.

"So, you've been doing tattoos since you were..."

"Nineteen. After I moved here."

"Whoa, dude." He clears his throat. "So, um... What ink do you have?"

I lift my right sleeve up, exposing a sleeve.

"Half of those are unfinished."

I shrug. "I'll get them done in my own time." I pull my sleeve down, and place a hand on my left bicep. "Um... I have a few tattoos on this arm, I don't even remember what they even are right now, dude..." I reach out, and touch ragged upraised skin in the small of my back. "My first tattoo is here, but it's all fucked up, it wasn't even done that nicely. It never healed well. And then... There's this one." I unzip my hoodie a little, and pull down the hem of my t-shirt.

Mikey gasps.

"What, is it that bad?"

He swallows, nervously. "No, it's just... Interesting." He clears his throat. "Does it go all the way around your neck?"

I nod, lifting my collar up and zipping the hoodie once more. "Anyways... Wanna go get coffee?"

He looks at the clock on the wall. "Dude, it's seven thirty. Shouldn't we be having dinner?"

I shrug, look away, and then meet his eyes, a grin splitting my face. "Coffee and pastries are always enough for me!"

I drag him out of the building, and don't think twice before crossing the street, mindlessly jaywalking to a coffeeshop: The Arabica Bean.

As I pull the door open, a girl with sunset-colored hair looks up, smiling brightly. "Pete!"

"Hey, Hayley." I return the grin, sliding to the counter with Mikey in tow. "How are ya?"

"I'm great. Life has been a little uneventful since Tuesday, but..." She shrugs, and then turns to Mikey, extending a hand to shake. "Hayley."

"Mikey."

Her hand freezes a little on his. Mikey's obviously trying to get his hand back, but Hayley stares a little into his eyes, as if looking for something like recognition.

Finally, her hand retreats, and she smiles. "Hey, what can I get you boys?"

I grin. "Double-shot latte with vanilla syrup?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, yeah. Mikey?"

"Um... How's the chai mocha?"

"Just try it."

"I'll get it, then."

Hayley taps a couple buttons on the computer in front of her, and looks up. "I put them both as large, sorry."

"It's alright."

"Food?"

"Whaddya recommend?"

"Um... The chocolate cranberry scones are good. So are the blueberry muffins. The sugar cookies aren't the best, but the chocolate chip and the biscotti are really good. And the brownies are kind of our sellout."

I meet eyes with Mikey. He turns to Hayley. "Let's get one chocolate scone..." He looks into the refrigerator shelf. "One pumpkin muffin, and... Two brownies."

She taps a few more things. "That it?"

I start pulling my wallet out. "Yeah."

She taps two more buttons. "Twenty-two-seventy-six."

I pull out a twenty and three ones. When Hayley hands the change back, I slip all of it into the tip box, looking up to wink at the redhead.

Hayley turns around. "Brendon!"

A dark haired guy with a mass of tattoo on his arm turns around from filling the tank of a mega-ass coffee machine. "Huh?"

"Double-shot latte, vanilla syrup, chai mocha!"

"On it, woman." I hear the eye-roll in his voice. Thank God it's seven-forty-five, and the only ones in the shop are us, Hayley, the Brendon dude, and some old woman in the back of the shop, sipping tea and looking at the wild-haired cashier and (albeit lightly) tattooed barista in horror.

Hayley ducks past the counter with a pair of tongs and a few wax paper wrappings, packages the goods, and passes them over the counter. "Here."

"Thanks, Hayles."

We find a small, round table with two seats, and sit down. I tear the pumpkin muffin open, and it becomes a battle as we tear our fingernails into the helpless lump of soft, sweet bread.

"Hey, guys eating the muffin, your drinks are ready..." His voice lingers away as I stand to grab the coffee-

"RYAN!"

The Brendon dude jumps over the counter (at this point, the old lady in the back of the shop is sparing herself of antics and is leaving the shop), and tackle hugs a familiar-looking tall guy as he enters, before leaning back to peck a kiss upon his lips.

I catch a look at the taller guy's face.

"No way," I say, standing up, "_Ryan Ross?_"

He looks up from the barista. "Pete? Pete Wentz? What're you doing here?"

"My work's across the street. And..." Realization dawn upon me, and I turn to Hayley. "You said-"

"I never said you'd all know each other." She grins. "Hi, Ryan!"

"Hey, Hayley."

"But... I had no idea... Dude, you seemed, like, totally straight when I first met you-"

Hayley laughs. "That's because you didn't see him in his day attire. Sorry, Ryro, but no one can wear what you wear and still be straight."

He rolls his eyes. "That's why no one but me wears that shit but me." He facepalms. "Shit, I forgot my hoodie at the club."

Brendon snakes his arm around Ryan's waist, and gives him this sweet look and ohgodthatsgrosstheyretoocute together. "The purple one?"

I almost crack up. The _purple_ one?

I hear Mikey stand up and approach behind me. "So... You're... Ryan?"

Ryan turns. "Yeah, you're-"

"Mikey."

"Mikey... Oh! You're that guy that Gabe finds kinda creepy. Like, he calls you mysterious."

I nearly choke. Mikey's pale face flushes to a deep scarlet. "Oh... Alright. He's... A bastard, then."

We all share a laugh, until Ryan clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. "Unfortunately, I'm gonna have to go back and get it, otherwise I know Gabe's gonna take it."

Hayley appears into our cluster from the counter. "So, you're... Going back?"

"Yeah."

The short redhead pulls a slip of paper from her apron, and slides it into Ryan's hand as she looks him in the eye. "Give this to Gabe, please?"

"Um... Yeah... I will."

She grins. "Thanks."

Brendon realizes that he's still wearing his apron. He unties it, slips it over his head, and throws it on the counter, saying, "Hayley, I will clean the coffee filter for the next week if you put that away."

"Coffee filter and water tank."

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "Fine."

Hayley smiles, sweet and chubby-cheeked. "Thank you, Brendon."

As the two walk off, Hayley sighs. "It's closing time. You guys can stay, if you want. No one's in here, anyways."

Mikey smiles a little. "...Can we?"

Hayley smirks. "Why not?

The flame-haired girl locks all the doors and starts pulling the shutters down, Mikey and I dig into the chocolate scone. The dry crumbs stick to the side of my mouth.

As Hayley unties the apron from her petite body, she sits down. "So." She turns. "Mikey, I don't want to be creepy, but..." She leans over the table. "Tell me about yourself."

As she smiles, Mikey stutters, turning red. "W-wh-what?"

Hayley laughs, leaning back into her seat. "Sorry, I had to do that. But no, really, where're ya from?"

Mikey bites his lip. "Well... Um... My name is Mikey..." He sighs. "I'm Mikey Way and I'm from Belleville, New Jersey. I'm a high school graduate with dreams of being in a huge band that could change lives, but I fell in love with someone who'd never love me back, and found a temporary cure to heartbreak in either being the guy diligently taking his Lithium in the corner, or the always-drunk scene queen. From seventeen to twenty, I wasted my life away. Then, I met Andy Hurley, who talked me out of destroying my life bit by bit, got me a job, and re-inspired me to make a life for myself. When I couldn't find any way to make a more-than-decent living in Newark two years later, I spent the last of my savings coming to Chicago, where I now live in Andy's basement, hoping for the best and trying hard to get away from _nowhere._"

He stares at both of us, intensity seeping out of his honey eyes.

Wow.

He clears his throat, and grabs for the brownie, taking a careful bite from the corner, savoring it so he doesn't have to say more.

Hayley finally breaks the tense silence. "...Mikey, you're an inspiration."

He looks at her like she's crazy. "Wuh?"

"No, I thought I had it bad. I'm a twenty-one-year-old girl who ran away from home because she hated her parents and what they wanted her to be. But, looking back, even though I love Chicago and what it's given me... My parents gave me a good life. For God's sake, Mikey! You overcame the scene, a broken heart, possible overdoses and suicide attempts, and you actually want to change yourself! You're kind of amazing."

He shrugs. "Thanks for that little pep talk, Hayley, but I'm content with recognizing my failures."

I grab my brownie. "So... Parents, siblings?"

He shrugs. "I have an older brother, but I don't talk to him, or my parents."

It makes sense.

But he said it kind of rushed.

Like he's hiding something.

Like he's lying.


	4. Ch 4: I'm Really Just Asking To Leave

**A/N: Oh, my God, you guys! I don't know any songs from Legally Blonde: The Musical!**

**I'm sorry, that was way too random. It's getting late, alright? Just ignore my unusual homework-crazed trains of thoughts.**

**Okay, I am really proud of myself for updating three stories in about 24 hours. FYI. So, I now give you the next chapter of this story. It's where things are gonna start getting dramatic. With fingers crossed, of course, but bear with me. Have a lovely time reading this, and please review. I squeal really loudly, jump up and down, and write another 2,000 words when I get reviews. So plz?**

**Alright, let's go kick some ass!**

**~Sunshine**

"So, what are we going to tell him? It's not like we can say, 'Oh, this is our friend Pete, he shoots fire from his fingertips, when are you available for an exorcism?'"

I shrug. "I was expecting that to happen."

Kez sighs. "Pete, get over yourself."

"Um, guys?" Hayley says, "we're here."

The four of us stop in front of an elegant stone church with stained glass windows in varied corners.

Here it goes.

Patrick opens the massive, oak doors.

* * *

"You four will be talking to Father Seacrest. We feel that he's the most suitable for you to talk to, since he's the youngest Father here, so he might be able to relate to you all," the nun stammers, stopping us in front of a door. She knocks. "Father Seacrest?"

"Yes?"

"They're here, Father."

"'Kay, Sister Hepburn."

She opens the door, her crinkled dark eyes nodding to us.

A dark haired man bends over a book, reading glasses on the end of his nose.

"Um... Father?" Patrick straightens his fedora.

He looks up, widening his blue-gray eyes. "Huh?... Oh, you're the guys who demanded help." He rips his glasses off, tucks them into his book, and slides the items to the side, standing and holding a hand out to shake. "Father Roger Seacrest."

We all shake his hand.

"Kezia Holly."

"Patrick Stump."

"Hayley Williams."

"Pete Wentz."

His hand stops mid-way shake. "...You're the guy."

I shrug. "I am."

He clears his throat. "In that case, you all should, um... Sit down."

We do; I notice his book. It's Stephen King's _The Shining._ No fucking way. This guy's awesome. I can actually talk to him.

"So."

Kezia laughs, nervously. "Where do we start on this one?"

Father Seacrest shrugs. "Let's start with what you said on the phone, Patrick." He clears his throat. "You told me, quote-unquote, that your roomate shoots fire from his fingertips if you mention... A certain place."

Hayley nods. "That's basically what happens. At least, from my experience."

"You should show him the burns, Pete."

I sigh, but stretch my palm out towards his face. He takes it, bends all my fingers, twists my hand around, brushes fingers over the palm, presses on my fingertips. "They're calloused."

"I play bass, that's why."

"Yes, and from what I know, callouses tend to be the same color as your skin, or similar. Look at your hands, Pete. Your fingertips. The centers are black."

I stare, and, "Oh."

He gives my hand back. "I'm gonna ask you a few questions, Pete. One: Where are you from?"

"LA."

"Two: How long had you lived there?"

"My whole life, until I started heading for Chicago. Made it here when I was eighteen, have lived here for the past five years."

'Three: What do you do for a living?"

"I ink tattoos."

"Four: Your first tattoo. When, and where?"

"Um, it's kind of this fucked up one on my back. It never healed over right. Um... I got it when I was fifteen, at some shady place that I don't really remember."

"When did you get your next one?"

"Eighteen."

"Can you remember anything else of that year?"

"Um... Yeah, I think... There was an earthquake that year. From what I remember."

He nods. "Can you remember anything of the year before that?"

I think. I close my eyes. Look, look, look...

"No."

Kezzie's eyes widen as she turns to look at me. "What?"

The Father nods. "Before that? Any time before you turned eighteen? Years before? Mother, father, siblings, childhood?"

I try concentrating one more time. And...

"No."

"So how do you know you got that tattoo on your back when you were fifteen?"

I stare. I can feel my throat straining as it gets louder. "I dunno, it's just always been like that! God, why are you judging me like this? Why are you asking all these questions, am I a fucking mystery now?"

I feel eyes on me.

"Pete," Patrick starts, "You just revealed that you're missing eighteen years of memory. That's some weird ground to tread."

"And how would you have known you got that one tattoo in those years if you can't remember anything else?" Hayley inquires.

"I don't know, I just..." I hang my head. "I don't _know._"

Father Seacrest just nods.

He seems to do a lot of that.

"Can I see that tattoo on your back?"

"Um, yeah," I say, standing up, "Yeah."

I lift my shirt and my hoodie, and turn around. "Can you see it?"

"...Yeah." He clears his throat. "What is it supposed to be?"

"Um... I don't remember. Some eco-sign, maybe?"

"Can I see?" Hayley and Kezia ask at the same time. Oh, right. Neither of them have seen it. I turn back around.

As Hayley 'oohs' and says, 'that one got fucked up', Kezia gasps. Loud. She mutters something under her breath, reaches out with two fingers, and skims the tips over the marks. I feel nothing, other than the heat coming from Kezia's fingers. That's expected.

She presses right in the middle of it, right where a nerve point is supposed to be. I gasp.

Then, I really gasp.

_"Naww, too much for The One With The Thorns Around His Neck? Is he_ screaming_?"_

I blink back into existence.

What?

I'm back in my chair, my shirt has been pulled down, and everyone's looking at me like I blew up in flames.

"Dude," Hayley says, "What just _happened?_"

"I dunno, you tell me."

Patrick speaks up. "Well, you kind of zoned out when Kezia poked you, and then, you just... Froze. And you screamed. And then you fell into your seat. And then... Here we are."

Hayley crosses her arms. "You guys, this is some really scary shit we're getting into. Do we have any idea what's happening here?"

Father Seacrest smiles sadly. "We don't."

He meets eyes with Patrick; both nod.

"What the fuck are you-"

"This whole thing's going to Hell. Every goddamned part. I mean, who knows, you might be a Demon."

_You. Demon. Hell. Goddamned._

_This whole thing's going to Hell._

_This whole thing's going to Hell._

_This whole thing's going to Hell._

_This whole thing._

_Going. To. Hell._

_Go to Hell._

As soon as I feel the fire at my fingers, see the scarlet flames licking my hands, they're being doused.

I fall back into my chair for the n-th time. "You guys planned that."

"He had to see." Patrick smiles sadly, as he puts his water bottle away.

"Well," Father Seacrest speaks, "That was one of the craziest things I have ever seen in my relatively short lifetime."

"What can we do?" Hayley sounds really desperate.

"Well, I could ask the older priests here, or some in a different church, city, state. Worse comes to worst, I can always call the Vatican for a private eye-"

"Oh, no," Kezia laughs, nervously, "We are _not_ calling the fucking Vatican. Listen to me, we don't need them. We don't need the fucking Pope for help. We can handle this on our own."

"And how are you sure of that?" Father Seacrest raises an eyebrow. "Your friend shoots fire from his fingertips and has eighty percent of his life missing. We are no where near professional. You either have lots of faith in Pete, or you hate the Vatican."

"I just don't want some big-headed assholes in Italy to come here and do shit to us. I don't want them to kill Pete."

"Oh, lovely, my own _life_ is in danger?"

"Shuttup, Pete." Kezia reaches up to pull hair from her face, exposing the elf ears. "...You'll understand, right?"

I track the Father's eyes. They go from Kezia's dark ones, to her ears, to her quivering, nervous lip, back to the ears, and then to her eyes. "...Of course."

Something's going on here.

"Alright. You have my number, I have all of yours, I'll call any of you if I find something. Until then, I recommend you all really watch your mouths, don't talk about what happened in here with anyone for the sake of keeping your own sanity, and keep a good eye on Pete. Does anyone here live with him?"

Patrick bites his lip. "I'm moving out of our apartment. He's going to be on his own."

"Then Pete, you should get a roomate. Someone who can watch you at night. Is this all clear to all of you?"

"Yes." Patrick stands, leans over the table, and shakes his hand. "Thank you, Father."

"My pleasure."

As we stand and say our respective goodbyes, Kezia looks at us. "You guys start heading back to the shop, I'll be right behind you. I just wanna talk about something else with the Father. I'll be right behind you."

"Alright," we all mutter, starting out the door.

As the heavy barrier shuts behind us, I give Hayley and Patrick stern looks in the eye. "You guys start walking; I'm gonna wait for Kez."

"You sure, man? You might be here a while-"

"I'll stay."

Hayley shrugs. "Okay, dude, do whatever you want. Swing by the coffee shop later?"

"Definitely."

They turn down the hall. I press my ear to the lock, where an opening is.

"...Think Pete might not actually be human."

"What are you suggesting?" The Father's voice is skeptical.

I prepare myself for the worst.

"I think Pete... No, I _know..._ That Pete's a Demon."

I gasp, clamping a hand over a mouth.

"Why do you say this?"

"Well... When I first met Pete, four years ago, he was kind of an off guy. His worst fear was being rejected. And that symbol on his back? That's no ordinary tattoo. I... Father, I know what that symbol means."

"Pete said it was an eco-sign."

"It's not. It's... It's what sent him to earth."

There's a few moments of silence where all I can hear are my heavy breaths.

"You should know, right?"

"Yeah... The same happened to me."

"So the ears are... Real."

A silent answer.

"It's creative. The earrings are interesting."

"Thank you."

"Anything else I need to know about Pete?"

"Yeah, um..."

I get up and tear down the hall, my only thoughts being _holy shit holy shit holy shit._

* * *

"Hey, Pete, you alright? You look like shit."

I look up at the petite brunette. "Huh?"

"I said, 'you look like shit.'"

"Thanks a fucking lot, Amy."

"Dude, what happened? I see you walk in after that chick from the coffee shop and your roomate, and then Kezia. Also, you've been giving said piercing artist weird looks all day, like she's about to sprout wings or something."

_You have no fucking idea, do you?_

"Fuck it, did anyone come in?"

"Joe took the other guy. You don't have any appointments til Monday." She crosses her legs on the counter, folds her hands over them, tenderly. "Pete, _go home._ Stay the weekend, cool off, detox, calm the fuck down. I'll tell Andy where you went."

"But-"

"You heard me. Go. You deserve it, anyways. For as much as a total fool you are, you move your ass around this place." She does a _shoo_ motion. "Go."

"Alright, fine, woman, just let me get my stuff."

I duck into my room; I find Mikey looking up at me from his phone. So this is where he's been.

"You're back - are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm alright."

"Yeah."

I shoulder the bag. "Hey."

"Hm?"

"Come with me."

He puts his phone away as he gives me a weird stare. "...Why?"

"Wanna talk to you."

He shrugs, hesitantly. "Alright, fine."

No one looks twice as we walk out.

* * *

As I say it, I find myself walking in the general direction of the apartment. "So, Patrick's going to be done moving out on Sunday."

"Uh-huh."

"Meaning there's an empty bedroom in the apartment."

"Hmm."

I turn to look at the guy; he's texting. A-fucking-gain.

"Mikey, look at me."

He looks up. "Wuh?"

"Did you hear me?"

"Let's see... I heard Sunday, and apartment."

I roll my eyes. "Mikey, I'm just gonna say it: how would you like to move out of Andy's basement?"

He raises his eyebrows. "To where?"

"Holy fuck, you really weren't listening." I sigh. "Mikey, I am blatantly inviting you to move in with me."

This seems to baffle him.

"Whoa, who, wait, _what?_" He looks around, smiling nervously, more like he's stretching his lips into a narrow rectangle. "Dude, you can't be fucking serious."

"I am very serious." Without even realizing it, I stop in front of the sleek, gray building. "This is my building. Like it? Good. I'm inviting you to come and check it out."

"But-"

"Mikey, I am offering you a place to stay. For free. At least come look."

He looks down. His shoes must be that interesting.

"Alright."

I smile before leading him into the building.

An awkward, 5-floor elevator ride and a few turns down the hall later, I twist the lock, and-

"Is it usually this empty?"

Looking in, I now realize that holy shit, Patrick had a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that was now boxed and shipped to a small house in a more suburban area via car. The only things that seemed to be in the apartment anymore was the black couch, matching coffee table, and red carped underneath, shining a little against the pale blonde faux-wood flooring.

At least he's leaving the dining set.

"Well, um... Not until Patrick started moving out."

I think he stopped listening to me. He starts wandering around, checking everything like a curious child. The texture of the upholstery on the couch. The hardened drips on the wall from bad paint jobs. The way his sneakers squeak against the floor. The cool of the tile counter surfaces.

His fingers stop streaking the cabinets when they meet a black streak. "What's this from?"

I tense up. "Oh, that's... That's from... I... Accidentally... Lit one of those large, like, stove lighters, when one of our sparkers went out." I hope he buys the lie.

He nods, but still looks a little disbelieving. "It's a nice apartment."

"...Thanks."

"I have to ask, though. I mean, since you want me to move in."

"Yeah?"

"Wouldn't you want to be in the apartment alone? Like, no one living with you, you're able to do what you want?"

"Well, I like having people around me, and I hate the concept of being alone, and I thought that you might like a change of living scenery, and-"

"Pete, there's something else."

"Well, I guess so, I mean, Father Seacrest told me that I'm going to need a roommate-"

He turns, all of a sudden, honey eyes widening. "Wait, a _Father_ told you to get a roommate?"

Oh. Shit.

"...Hasn't a Father ever told you to have someone live with you?"

His eyes widen. Really widen.

"No. One hasn't. Partially because I have never sought one out for life decisions." He crosses his arms, leans against the counter, and raises an eyebrow. "Pete?"

I look down.

"I will wait. It's not like I have anywhere else to be for a while."

I breathe in.

"Do you... Do you believe in Heaven, Mikey? Or Hell? Or Angels, or Demons, or any kind of that shit?"

His eyes narrow; he leans forward. "...What are you talking about?"

"Look, I don't want to get into it, I just wanna do anything it takes to not risk everything, alright?" I stare at my shoes, and back up at him. "Mikey?"

"...I'll... I'll think about it."


	5. Ch 5: Doing Lines Of Dust And Sweat

**A/N: I am just updating like a crazy woman, aren't I?**

**Oh, wait, I am crazy.**

**So, ladies and possible gents, I was wondering if I could get reviews on my stories. Or rather, more. Or fuck it, just read my stories. I got a couple reviews on my grand updating escapade last week, but I got tons of hits on my stories. Which is awesome! Thank you. Loads. I love you for doing that. And just don't be afraid to post a review on any of my stories, seriously. It's what is making me get enough of a nudge to keep on writing these stories. I don't know if any of you realize this, but I can stop writing. But I don't want to. Why? You people. **

**So, in reality, that was just a really sappy way of saying 'review my stories NAOGHW', but really, I mean it. Thank you for actually having enough guts to click on any of my stories. I just wanted to say that.**

**In other news: this November, I am going to pen my second full novel, ever. It follows a girl named Nin, who goes on a ride through life to find out who her mother was, and how she died. It includes a scene kid vampire, a baby angel, and hippie Father Time. I'll tell you when I start up my theoretical FictionPress acount. Also, per usual, read Inu-Chan the music friend's stories, because she deserves more credit than she gets.**

**Toodles!**

**~Sunshine**

He moves in Monday.

He moves in Monday, and doesn't question anything I said on Friday.

When I tell Patrick, he shrugs. "That's great, man. He's alright."

Andy goes so far as hugging me when I go back into work the same day. "Thank you for getting him out of my basement."

I just nod numbly, and walk into my workspace, dropping my bag.

As Kezia walks by, she peeks in. "Hey, so there's someone coming in for a tattoo today, and Joe's already inking someone right now, so you're gonna be actually working today, alright?"

"Alright." I look up. "Hey, Kez, can I talk to you?"

She shrugs, walking in and leaning against the table. "Yeah, what's up?"

"So, last Friday, when you stayed a little longer with Father Seacrest, what were you talking about?"

She freezes up; her skin goes white, her dark eyes widen, and it even looks like her hair loses some of its luster. "What?"

"Just wondering."

She bites her lip, looks at the floor; she's composing a lie, I've seen that face before.

"Okay, so I was talking to him about you."

"Me, and?"

She shrugs. "I'm worried about _you_ in general. You haven't really... Been yourself the last couple months. You've been acting a lot more... Subdued. Calmer. It's starting to get really noticeable." She pauses, bites her lip, and this time, she actually looks at me with honesty. "Pete, have you been taking your-"

"Of course I'm taking my pills, Kez."

She nods, wiping damp palms on the front of her jeans. Her earrings glint. "Alright. Um... It was nothing, alright, Pete? I gotta get to my job."

As she walks out, I call after her, "You're _at_ it, in case you didn't notice!"

She walks away; I sigh.

After inking the top of someone's foot with pawprints and visiting Hayley at the coffee shop, I decide to hang with Amy.

She rolls her artificially blue eyes, smirking. "Alright, Pete, whatever. Have fun in here."

I smile. "Thanks."

"So, what brings you in here?"

"Nothing. Need to vent at the world. Mind if I do that?"

"Go ahead."

"Alright, so you know how Patrick moved out and Mikey moved into my apartment? Alright, so I think Mikey is a great guy, and he's really awesome, and I think he's good company, but he doesn't work, so now I'm paying the bills for two people instead of one, y'know? And Patrick is like, my best fucking friend, alright? So now he's living with his girlfriend, and they're probably gonna get married and have two kids and a dog and a shiny car and the picket-fence goodness. And on top of that, I think Kezia's convinced that I'm crazy and she was talking to a priest about me-"

I'm interrupted when I hear Jon pass by the door. "In here."

He opens the door, and walks in, followed by a tall guy with shining blonde hair, blue eyes, and light, awry smile. Jon points to Amy. "That's Amy, and she's our piercer who's not busy right now, and _Pete, why are you in here?_"

I shrug. "Not working right now. Do you need help at the desk?"

"No, I don't."

"Amy, client whose name I don't know, do you care if I'm in here?" Both shrug. "Great, because I'm staying."

The client purses his lips together in this weird way that shows that he's trying to keep a full smile under control. "Cool."

Jon leaves, and Amy shakes hands with the guy. "Amy."

He nods. "Bob."

I stick out my hand to shake because I feel like it. "Pete."

"Bob," he repeats, shaking back. He has a firm handshake.

Amy walks into the corner to wash her hands. Ooh, good, she's looking professional. "So, what were you planning to get pierced, Bob?"

"Um, lip. Lower right side. It closed in."

"Ooh, that sucks." She slides a pair of latex gloves on, opens the disinfecting cabinet, and pulls out a gun. "Hey, can you sit in that chair over here?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

She sets a needle into the gun, grabs alcohol-soaked gauze, and as she sets the gun to the side, she leans her hand with the gauze next to Bob's lip. "Alright, where do you want to do the piercing? Lower right lip?"

"Yeah. Um, could you be able to find where the scar is?"

"Mm-hmm." She rubs the gauze over his lip, and grabs the gun. "Just stay still, alright?"

"Sure."

As Amy passes the needle through Bob's lip, the door suddenly opens. A large, curly mane peeks out of the door, and Joe turns to look at me. "Hey, Pete, so I'm inking a sleeve, and I ran out of ink, so can I borrow some ink-" He notices Bob, and his jaw drops. "Oh, hi." Joe retracts his head slowly, like a turtle going into its shell. "I'm just gonna take your ink, alright, Pete?"

As he leaves, I yell at him, "I will get your ink, do not touch my stuff!" I turn around, and say, "See ya, Amy. Great meeting you, Bob."

They both nod goodbyes as I leave.

Joe's going through my needles with an odd energy buzzing around him.

"Joe, are you alright-"

He turns around, wide-eyed. "Pete, do you know who that _was_?"

I shrug. "Dude named Bob. New client. Why?"

Joe leans in, and hisses. "That was _Bob Bryar._"

I laugh. "Joe, did you know him in high school and just don't wanna admit it?"

He scoffs. "I wish. Dude, that was Bob Bryar. As in, Bob Bryar, _The Punk Billionaire._"

"You totally knew him_wait, billionaire?_"

"Yeah, man. He was on the cover of Forbes." My jaw drops. "So the guy used to be a drummer in some punk band, alright? Then, he majorly fucked his wrists up, to the point of getting surgery and never being able to play again. So he turned to the executive part of it, started his own label. And now it's in Chicago, _and LA, and London,_ and he has, like a hundred and fifty artists signed, and all of them make it big."

"...Whoa, dude."

"You know how much he's made, dude? _Fourteen Billion_. So far."

"...Damn."

He grabs a tube of ink, despite my protests. "I know, right? Shittonsofmoney."

* * *

I go back to the coffee shop. Hayley lets me stay to closing time.

Sometime thirty minutes before Hayley starts locking up, Mikey shows up. "Hey, so you weren't working," he says.

"No, nothing happening today. Wanna do anything?"

Hayley peeks up from the refrigerators. "Let's go clubbing!"

Mikey simply stares at her with widened, honey eyes. "...What?"

"Where's the club that Gabe works at?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Angels and Kings?"

Her smile widens. "Yeah! Sure!"

The girl's totally in love. She even forgot Ryan works there, too. I wish I could take her there. But. "It's Gabe's one off day from there." I smile sadly as her face begins to fall. "He works at some dingy open mic/bar/scene hangout tonight instead."

And her face lights up _yet_ again. "Let's go there, then!"

Mikey looks a little more comfortable with that, so I shrug. "Alright."

As Hayley squeals, going to wipe the coffee machines down with a little more fervor, Mikey turns to me. "Scene hangout."

I lean in next to his ear, and whisper, "The girl's in love. Or falling in it. Either way, I'm not going to fuck with that. If you want, you can go back to the apartment-"

"No, it's fine."

Hayley yells, "Hey, do either of you want any of the food from the back?"

I lean a little bit away from his ear, and asks, "Do you want anything?"

"No, I'm good."

Hayley finally emerges, apron free, eyeliner redone. "Ready?"

* * *

The band sucks.

It's four guys in black jeans and gray and red bro-tanks. Their hair has been spiked past recognition of being real hair, and the lead singer - a dude nearly breaking the strings on his guitar, screaming about how living with his mom is misery - go figure - has some crazy makeup thing going, black eyeliner spewing from the corner of his right eye and jutting out in spikes around his orbital bone, across the bridge of his nose, licking the corner of his lip. Their bassist isn't playing, just hitting the E string endlessly, the lead guitarist is more occupied in trying to fall into splits to be concerned with playing, and their drummer is just kicking the base drum and hitting the crash, creating off-beat fills in the meanwhile.

Oh, well, the kids are into it.

Mikey and I are simply standing on the edge of the space, next to the bathrooms, our observance between the shitty band, the various sets of making-out scene kids slamming each other into the bathroom - in the interests of God-knows-what sex acts, disregarding which room they stumble into - and Hayley leaning over the bar to talk to Gabe. There's a lot of smiles, a lot of laughing, a lot of eyes lighting up, so that's good.

Mikey sighs. "Deja vu of the Jersey scene. This band sucks ass."

"Mm."

The band finishes their song, drinks a little water, and start another song. When the lead singer starts growling about himself being a wreck, which is actually really fucking true, Mikey turns to me, grinning wildly. "Wanna go mosh?"

I smirk, grabbing his wrist and taking to the edge of the pit. We consider, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, before jumping in together.

Immediately, we're separated. I slam my body into the back of some guy with pink hair, get elbowed in the ribs by a chick with purple lipstick. I find myself laughing, screaming, gasping winded when a shoulder manages to get into my stomach. The band plays on, and that horrible, horrible bass sinks into my bones and my brain, and I really couldn't give two shits anymore. The band starts the bridge, and I hear - "Where's my soul when I need it" - and wow, that's good, and - ow, shit.

At some point, my hand closes into a wrist, and it drives into someones back. I find myself closer to the front, at one point getting crowdsurfed, until I end up back in the middle - right next to Mikey.

We immediately reach for each other, grabbing each other's hoodies with gnarled fists, clinging for dear life.

"Let's get out," Mikey yells.

I nod, my hand slipping around his shoulder to stay closer to him.

I'm not expecting another mass to be attached to her shoulder.

Whoa.

Whoa.

What.

Is.

This.

I hold back a gasp, and palm the jut in his shoulder a little more, with a little twisting in my gut of nerves, but Mikey hasn't noticed. I feel the knobbed ridge, reminding me of a shoulder blade. The gentle, scalloped curve that feels like it's curved over his shoulder. The end that tucks back into his ribs. It's like... there's two bones there, folded against his shoulder, but maybe there's muscle that's causing the curve, and there's some kind of softness covering it that causes resistance. At least, that's what it feels like.

So as soon as we dive out of the pit, I remove my hand from Mikey's seemingly deformed shoulder.

Funny. From out here, it looks normal. A little bony, even under the loose Anthrax hoodie that hangs on him, but that's _Mikey._ He's bony.

We catch our breath.

Could it have just been some kind of brace? That could explain the loose hoodies. So maybe he has scoliosis.

He holds his back. "That hurt."

Definitely a brace. Padded, too.

He looks out at the opened back door, and says, "I'm going to go get a breath outside. See you in?"

"Yeah, yeah."

He leaves. I count to five before following his path.

When I peek out the side of the door to look at him, he's talking to someone, hidden by the shadow behind a street lamp.

The someone has ratty, chin-length dark hair that swishes a little around his ear as his head moves. When a little light hits him, you can see the accent of brow and cheek bones, the gleam of pale skin. He wear black jeans, a black shirt, and a black leather jacket, and the silvery zipper glints a little.

In a tenor voice inflected with a light Jersey accent, I hear, "You found a place. Good for you, Michael."

I'm a little shell-shocked by that. I've never heard Mikey get called Michael before.

"Thank you."

"How've you been coping?"

"Alright. I haven't found a job yet, but that'll happen soon. Hopefully."

Shadow Dude twists his head. I catch a murmured, "Is there anyone else here?"

Mikey turns around; I duck behind the door. When I hear him say, "It's fine," and tun around, I look back.

Shadow Dude steps into the light.

The ebony hair at the front of his face is combed back behind his ears, revealing arching eyebrows, accented cheekbones, a small, almost feminine nose, and semi-defined lips. In an odd, ethereal way, he could be described as beautiful.

But what shocks me more is the mass of purely white bird wings arching over his shoulders.

They're really large, something that looks like a cross between the wings of a hawk and an albatross, huge, a little narrow in the middle, fanning at the edge. There're so many layers of feathers, they all blend into each other. The top arch stretches a little above his head, the largest flight-feathers at the end of his wings touching the bottom of his thighs, just above his knees.

They're kind of awesome.

"You haven't shed yet, have you?" Shadow Dude asks.

"I don't understand why not. I've been down here for six years. I'm practically human at this point." I can hardly hear his whisper. "Why is happening to me? Why?

Shadow Dude sighs. "I dunno, Mikey, I'm just a Messenger. The most I might ever be is a Guardian."

"Maybe there's a way back."

Back where? And why did the angel just call him Mikey?

Wait.

What.

Angel.

Where did that come from?

"I don't even think a way back is even in question right now, but-"

"But what? I've waited six years. Six years in misery, how can you say wait-"

"Will you listen to me?"

"...Okay."

"Mikey, I need you to realize something. You _fell._ I don't even know if you can go back."

"Excuse me? I still have my wings, thank you very much. Apparently, I didn't fully fall."

"...I just don't know how to explain that."

"So how could I have fallen?"

"For our sake, Mikey! You _fell in love._ With a _human soul._"

"So? We've all made our mistakes!"

"When our souls were in different places! Mikey, you should have been done with your mistakes before you were reborn in this form."

"Well, I'm not. I don't think anyone is."

"Oh, lovely-"

"No, you're not going to contradict that." Mikey steps forward, into Shadow Dude's face. "Everyone makes their mistakes, _everyone._ But I don't think mine was severe enough."

Shadow Dude sighs. "Alright, I'm not going to say anything more."

"Good, I don't want you to."

"Remember, though. I'm still trying to help you."

He walks back into the shadows. I hear a few heavy, rhythmic gusts of wind. As Mikey turns back to enter the bar, I turn and run deeper into the bar.

I slide next to Hayley, glancing at both her and Gabe. "Hey."

"Hey," Hayley says, giving me a look. "You alright?"

"Fine," I spit out, quickly and breathless, "I was moshing."

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Mikey.

I look at him. There's hurt in his eyes.

"You alright?" I ask him in turn.

"Fine," he says, "Just fine."

* * *

Patrick visits the apartment the next day. Or later that morning, whatever.

"Holy shit, have you been living on only coffee for the last, what, three days?"

"No, that's Mikey. Dude's the biggest caffeine addict you've ever seen."

"Have fun with that." He sighs, leaning over the counter as I look into the fridge for non-moldy takeout for breakfast. "Where is he, by the way?"

"You know what, I don't know. I just let him do his own shit, he's twenty-two."

"Huh."

I nod my head at him. "Hey, how's your new job?"

"It's great! Yeah. Production's fun, even though I'm basically the intern that no one likes right now."

"Cool."

We're silent for a long time. The coffee maker buzzes.

"Hey, Patrick?"

He notices the deeper question in my voice. "Yeah, Pete?"

"Do you believe in angels?"

His eyebrows crease over his blue-green eyes, his lips parted with a mix of shock and some kind of subtle disbelief. "...What?"

"Do you believe in angels? Like, winged-people, messengers-of-heaven angels."

"...Not really, why?"

"Just curious."

He sighs. "Look, if you think the fire-fingers thing is some kind of remnant of you being some kind of dark angel-"

"It's not that, Patrick. It's... Nevermind-"

"Pete. _Tell me_."

I shrug. "What else can I say? I just was wondering if you believed in angels, what's suspicious behind that?"

"Nothing."

I sigh. "Whatever."

It takes a few moments, but he asks what was in the back of my mind.

"Do you believe in angels?"

I shrug. "You know what? I really don't know. At all. Except... I feel like they exist, y'know? If feel like there are higher beings of some kind, who are giving messages to us. Who are guiding us. Maybe protecting us. But... When they get too close to us... They fall, and though we think they're one of us, they're not, and only they know that, and they're trying to get to a more comfortable place, somewhere that they belong... And they just can't make it back."

Patrick is deadly silent for a long time.

Then:

"Pete... Is this some kind of crazy metaphor for yourself? Are you... Please tell me you're not on Ativan again. I don't want another Best Buy, Pete I don't-"

"There's not going to be another Best Buy, I'm not your fucking china doll." Patrick takes a recoiling step back. "That happened during the worst low of my _life_, alright? It's not going to happen again, Patrick, when is that going to go to your fucking head?"

His lips seal together.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I just... I hate that whenever I just become a little, I dunno, intrapersonal and pensive, the immediate thought you and Gabe go to is Ativan. Jesus, I'm not as delicate as you two seem to think I am."

He nods.

"Forget it," I say, flopping back on the couch. What the fuck? Seriously.

"...I think I did see an angel once."

My eyes widen. I turn to Patrick. "...What?"

He looks down. "It was when I was really little. Three or four? Anyways, I was really young, and my parents took my brother and me to some carnival. It was before my parents split. But... Anyways, I went up to this booth for some game where you shoot, like, duck-shaped targets, right? And I thought my mother was with me, but she wasn't, so when I looked around, no one was with me. So I started running all over this stupid carnival to look for anyone in my family, at that point. And then... This woman came up to me. She looked like she was in her forties, and she wore oval glasses and a floaty skirt... And she looked like a preschool teacher, y'know? One of those ladies. And she looked perfectly normal, except she had these light brown... Bird wings.

"She asked if she could help me find someone, since I was lost. I asked her to help me find my mother."

"About fifteen minutes later, we found my mother talking to a security guy, because right _then_ she hadn't seen me with her. So, this lady just handed me off to my mother, and said, "keep a watch-" He clears his throat. "Keep a watch on him, he's your blessing."

"That night, I tried to convince my family that she was some kind of angel. My dad told me I had an overstimulated imagination, my mother sent me to bed, and Kevin called me stupid, go figure." He shrugs, and turns to me, his eyes boring into mine.

"For the longest time, I thought it was just my imagination. I still think it is."

* * *

That night, I ask Mikey if he believes in angels. He just smiles a little remorsefully, and says, "no, they can't exist."


	6. Ch 6: Just Like Broken Glass To Me

**A/N: Okay. Hi. Hi. HI.**

**I'm sorry if this chapter feels rushed, I was scrambling to finish it. So, here it is. You get to find out the identity of the angel (if you haven't guessed), and if you tilt your head and squint, there's a hint to something that's gonna happen... Oh, and Joncer.**

**In other news: Moonray and I went to Homecoming this weekend! Unfortunately, no, we didn't trash it like I said we would. But it was still awesome! And... I am going to go see AAR and BLG IN LESS THAN 4 WEEKS! I'M SO PSYCHED! Whoo. Also, nothing else.**

**~Sunshine**

When I walk into work Tuesday morning, I'm not expecting the two coworkers I tend to _avoid _are making out against the door to my office, room, whatever.

I clear my throat, and the two break apart.

"Hey, Pete," Spencer grins, "how are you?"

I blink. "What the _fuck_ are you two doing?"

"Well, what does it look like, Pete?" He turns Jon towards their work area. "See ya."

I blink, once, twice.

I open the door to my room, stashing my bag under a counter, and walk out with a bad taste in my mouth.

"Wentz. Hey, hey, Wentz."

A plastic coffee tumbler gets pressed into my hand. "What? Joe."

He raises an eyebrow, putting his own coffee to his lips. "Yeah. What's up?"

I shrug. "Hey, since when have Jon and Spencer been dating?"

His eyebrows crease. "...Never, why?"

"I dunno, reasons. Like I found the two of them practically grinding against my door this morning."

"Oh, alright- Wait, what?"

"Yup." I sip my coffee. "Jon. And Spencer."

Joe whistles. "Since when did that happen?"

* * *

So, of course, everyone knows by lunch.

(I'm not sure if this is between Jon and Spencer emerging from the cleaning closet as Andy walked by or me just telling everyone; who cares?)

It's not like they care, anyway.

Hayley knows by the same time.

As I'm leaning over the counter, drinking more coffee and talking to her.

"No way, the assholes who cut hair?" She laughs over the sound of the coffee machine going.

"Yeah, can you believe it?"

Brendon looks up from cleaning coffee grounds from the _other_ machine. "Wait, are we thinking the same Spencer?"

"I dunno, which one?"

Brendon shrugs. "Spencer Smith?"

I shrug back. "Yeah. Why?"

His eyes bug. "No way, really? Spencer Smith?"

"Do you know him?"

He cracks the biggest smile. "He's been best friends with Ryan since they were toddlers, man."

Hayley turns. "Really?"

"Yeah. They're practically brothers. They grew up together, moved here from Vegas together, whole deal."

"Really - wait, they're from Vegas?"

"I am, too, you didn't know that?"

I point to him. "You're-"

He shrugs. "How do you think I met Ryan?"

"I don't know, the club?"

Hayley laughs. "That's plausible, but no. I don't even know how they met."

"Oh, do you want to know?" Brendon asks.

"...Not really."ey

I'm about to comment, but my voice is stopped by two others.

"-So why are you living with him?"

"Because I can't be a basement rat for forever!"

...Holy shit. No way.

I duck my head, hissing at Hayley, "I was never here!"

She gives me a quick nod, her green eyes narrowing with determination, before turning to a flustered Mikey, saying, "Hey, Mikey! How are you? Can I get you anything?"

Other dude: "You know him?"

"Yeah, he comes in here, Mikey's awesome, we love him. Don't we, Brendon?"

The other barista's voice quivers a little. "Yeah! We love Mikey! Hey, bro!"

I fist my hands to keep from facepalming. That kid...

I hear Mikey's voice again. "Um... Yeah, Brendon. Um, can we get... One plain latte, and what do you-"

"Black coffee. Seriously, nothing in it."

"...Ah! Okay, yeah, we can definitely do that. And would you want anything to eat-"

"No, we'll be fine," the other dude says, "please." His voice quivers with anxiety.

"Um... Alright, that's gonna be six-thirty-five." I hear the ruffle of bills, the clink of change, the chime of a cash register. "Thanks!"

I hear a few footsteps pace away from me before I raise my head from under the counter.

Mikey has his back turned away from me. He isn't wearing a hat, and his brown hair sticks up in the back. A black hoodie sits on his shoulders, and he leans over the table. The guy he's sitting with wears a gray shirt and a loose black jacket, with identically colored jeans. He brushes a lock of obsidian behind his hear, and-

Holy shit. It's the angel.

Without the paper-white wings emerging from his back, he looks _normal._ Not in the sense of a normal person - The fashion sense is pretty decisively _dark - _but he looks human. His eyes sparkle a little in the filtered light.

"So, how've you been?" He asks.

Mikey groans. "Get to the point, I don't have all day."

"What, it's not like you have a job-"

"Shut. Up."

The angel raises his arms in mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry. _Fuck_." He clears his throat. "So, you're roommate. Pete."

Mikey shrugs. "Pete. Pete Wentz. He's a tattoo artist. He's a good guy. He's letting me live with him. Little bit odd, I'll admit, but otherwise a nice guy. Why?"

The angel shrugs. "I dunno, there's something... Off... About him. I mean, he seems nice, but I feel like there's something about him. Something... Not human, maybe?"

The bastard is saying... What? Fucking _bastard._

Mikey stiffens. "I dunno what you're talking about."

"Um... Maybe he's... Lost? No belonging-"

"Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you, sorry."

"But you don't know?"

"I don't."

The angel makes a 'come here' gesture, and leans over the table to mutter something to Mikey.

Silence. One. Two. Three. Four-

"No."

Mikey pulls away, and says, "No, I don't believe you whatsoever. That's bullshit. We both know it."

"Whatever, Mikey, I just think it's a valid reason-"

Hayley turns to me. "Better duck again." She clears her throat as I tuck my head under the counter again. "Plain latte, black coffee!"

I hear one of them get up; I hear the screech of the wooden legs against the floor. "I'll get it," the angel says.

I hear him walk up to the counter, humming some minor-key tune as he walks back. When I get a glance at him from under the counter, I see the tip of a single, paper-white feather peeking out from the jacket.

Oh. Oh. Oh. _Oh._

When he's sitting back down again and handing Mikey his coffee, I sit back up and furiously down my own. "I'm going to go try and meet this guy."

Hayley rolls her eyes. "Have a good fucking time with that, Pete, how're you going to do that?"

I smile. "Watch."

I gather my things and head for the door. As I pass the trash can, I throw my tumbler away and kick said trash can.

"...Pete?"

I smile a little, before turning, fake shock etched on my face, "Mikey! I didn't see you come in!" I walk over to the table; the angel gives me a dirty look. "Hey."

"Hey," Mikey says, "Aren't you just about to get off lunch?"

I shrug. "Yeah, but Andy can wait. Right?"

The angel groans, and I turn to him.

"Oh! Hi! Who are you?"

He looks up from his coffee; his eyes are a shining hazel-green. "Hello to you too, I'm-"

"Pete, this is Gerard." He hesitates, and then swiftly adds: "My brother."

And suddenly, I actually am confused.

"Oh, I didn't know you had a brother."

"Yes, he does," the angel - Gerard - says.

Now that I look at them, they do look kind of similar. They have the same eyes, at least.

"Alright!" I pull up a chair and sit down. "So, Gerard, tell me about yourself."

It catches him off guard. His eyes widen. "W-w-wait, what?"

"Where are you from? I mean, _obviously_, Jersey, but where are you from? How did you spend your life? What do you do?"

"I... What?"

"Gerard's visiting from Jersey right now," Mikey cuts in, "Right now, he works at Cartoon Network as an intern. Right, Gerard?"

I hear the sound of a shoe making contact with a shin. Gerard winces, and then smiles. "Yeah! I work there. I help with... Storyboards."

I smile on the inside. "Cool."

Mikey gives me a look. "Pete, it's late, shouldn't you be getting back to your job?"

I nod. "Yeah, alright, if you need me to go-"

"No, I didn't mean it like that-"

"Mikey, it's fine." I pick my bag up. "I'll go."

I leave with Hayley's eyes following me out the door, and Gerard saying, "What a fucking nutjob."

* * *

I knock on the door. "Father?"

"Hello?" A faint voice says, "Come in."

I open the door; the man behind the desk looks up in surprise. "Pete. I wasn't expecting you."

I smile nervously. "I'm sorry, Father Seacrest, but I need to talk to you."

He sighs, putting another book to the side. _IT_, by Stephen King. Ha. "Alright, Pete, come in, sit down, I hope it isn't anything urgent. Did you burn a building down?"

"No." I sit. "Father... Father, I think - no - I met an angel."

He narrows his blue-gray eyes, his eyebrows rising. "An angel."

"An angel. A holy being with wings."

His sighs only get louder. "Start talking."

I clear my throat. "Okay, so, the other day, we - Hayley, my roommate and I -"

"You got a roommate? Okay, sorry, continue."

"...Thank you. So, Hayley, my roommate and I were at a venue, and Hayley went to go talk to this friend of mine, who works there as a bartender at this venue's bar Monday nights, and Hayley thinks he's perfect for some reason, which makes no sense-"

"Pete."

"Sorry. Anyways. My roommate - his name's Mikey, alright? - Mikey and I decided to go mosh, and then we came out, and then Mikey went to go get a breath of fresh air, so I followed him. And... I saw him talking to this guy, alright?"

The Father's eyebrows - and the corners of his mouth - curve up. "This _guy_."

"Yes, this _guy_. And he only wore black, and he was talking about falling... And... He stepped into the light. And he had these _wings._"

"...Wings."

"Yes. Giant, white bird wings."

Father Seacrest is quiet. For a long time.

Finally, he inhales deeply, works his fingers into a weave, and looks me in the eye. "Pete? Can you tell me about your roommate?"

I nod. Slowly. "His... His name's Mikey. He's from New Jersey. He was in the scene there. But he couldn't find a good life there, so he lived in my boss' basement here until I gave him a place to stay."

"And is there anything weird about him?"

"Not... Really... Well, he always wears a loose hoodie, or a jacket, or something. And... When we were in the mosh pit the other night, and I grabbed his shoulder, and it didn't feel, well, like a shoulder, I could say. I thought he was wearing a brace, but... I'm not sure."

"Not anymore?"

"Not after I saw the angel at Hayley's work."

"Oh. Whoa."

"He was sitting with Mikey. So I went up to them, and I started talking to them, alright?"

"Pete, I wonder about you."

"And Mikey said the angel was his brother. He called the angel Gerard. And... Well, they started making up a history for him right there, on the spot. And, while the angel - Gerard - was walking around the shop, I... I saw one of his feathers. From under his jacket."

Again, the Father is silent. "Father Seacrest?"

"I'm sorry, Pete, but I don't think I can help you with this. I can't confirm anything." He looks me in the eye again. "That's something you can only figure out for yourself, Pete."

* * *

Mikey is on the couch.

He's sprawled out, hair disheveled, glasses crooked. He looks calm. And, of course, he's very asleep.

"Mikey, hey, Mikey."

his honey eyes unfold. "...Pete. Hey. What's up?"

"Not much." I flop down on the couch. "So... Whaddya wanna talk about?"

He grumbles. "Sleep?"

"Sleep's overrated."

"Fucking insomniac."

"You know it."

Things are silent for a while.

"Patrick called."

"He did? What did he say?"

"He said his girlfriend's being a bitch, his job's actually really fun, and he thinks you should buy new stuff since all of his shit's gone."

I chuckle, before turning back to Mikey. "What do you think of Patrick?"

"I think he's a great guy. He's smart, he's funny, he's nice, he's your friend. He let me take his old room. I haven't truly met him, obviously, but he's great."

I sigh. "What about Gabe?"

He scoffs. "Gabe's an ass. Why does he seem like he wants to get into everyone's pants?"

"That's just Gabe. He has that air. Also, Patrick told me Gabe was kind of a whore in high school."

Mikey starts to smile. Small, at first, slowly getting bigger.

"Everyone. Tell me something about them."

I shrug. "Joe is just... Joe. When I first met him, he was a major pothead. Like you can't believe. Every day, he was smoking up. It was kind of funny, but you couldn't let him into your kitchen, for obvious reasons. Um... Andy. I met him through Gabe and Patrick, but he's your friend, so you know about him. Amy. Sweet girl, but beware a drunk Amy, she goes wild. Kezia... Kez seemed really strange, the first time I met her, but she's one of the only people who really understands other people, y'know? She would be a really great therapist. Jon... Well, Jon and Spencer. I avoid them, they just get fucking annoying after a while. Especially now."

Mikey nods. "Alright."

"What about you? Friends you had in Jersey?"

He shrugs. "No. Not at all."

We sit in blissful quiet, until Mikey gets up. "Goodnight, Pete."

As he pads back to his room, I notice a single, pale bronze feather, set delicately on the armrest.


	7. Ch 7: Wonderfully Wandering Alone

**A/N: One, I apologize for the chapter being short. My mother is thinks not letting me write at 10 PM will cure my insomnia.**

**Two: The content makes up for it. Because shizz starts goin' craaaay up in here.**

**Also, I'd like to thank you all for giving me a 27-day streak of visitors through the month of September! It was awesome. I would love some reviews, but no, seriously: READ THESE STORIES.**

**Announcements: this month through December is going to be crazy. Nanowrimo is starting up, I haven't finished all my references and research for it, and I have 29 days. I will be getting a FictionPress account to post it, though, so enjoy that. :)**

**Also, Toro fans could possibly get a kick out of this chapter. And there WILL be more Bob and more Gerard later. Just keep calm.**

**Clever ending greet!**

**~Sunshine**

By the Saturday two weeks later, I might have gotten used to shoving the tangle of Jon and Spencer off my door every morning. Fuckers.

Mikey comes in as well, lightly giggling as he watches me struggle with them, listening to a mix of "get off my door" and "don't like the show?" and "go away" and "you know you want to watch."

"Your coworkers are idiots," Mikey says, calming down from his laughing. His face is completely straight again. How does he _do_ it?

I notice a note on the counter, next to the sink - Pete, someone made an appointment today, FYI. DON'T INK ANY WALK-INS. Andy.

Andy's name has been crossed out in an aggressive fashion, replaced with Kezia's.

"Fine, bitch," I mutter.

"Whawazzat?"

"Nothing, sorry. Talking to myself." I laugh nervously.

Mikey nods. "Alright."

I turn when I hear laughing from the hallway.

"Andy should be fine with you hanging out today. If he doesn't, he can suck my nonexistent dick." Deep, masculine laughter. "Anyways, why are you ignoring your job today?"

"Cheesy, but true; I wanted to spend it with you."

Oh, holy... No way.

Amy. With _Bob-Billionaire-Bryar._

"Hey, how famous is that guy, because I swear I've seen his face before-"

"He was on the cover of Forbes."

"Oh. Oh!" Mikey says, "That's crazy."

"Yeah." I lean back against one of the counters. "So, I have someone I have to be inking today, so we're just gonna have to hang. So." _Your feather that I found on the couch two weeks ago._

"So? What are we talking about?"

_Your angel brother._ "I dunno, stuff?"

"Like?"

I grin. "The weather?" _Your possible inhuman-ness._

"The weather. It's... Chicago-like, different question."

"Um..." I get an idea, and ignore the tingling in my wrists as I say it. "Do you believe in Hell, Mikey?"

He's thrown back by the question. "...What?"

"Do you believe in Hell. As in, worst-pit-of-the-afterlife Hell."

He shrugs. "I believe it exists as a concept."

"What do you mean?"

"I think we, as people, created Hell to realize and name our deepest fears, so we could think we could run from it. It's like Lord Of The Flies, there's this beast that you can name, you can run from, but really, you just created it."

"Huh. Okay."

"Why?"

"Just... wondering."

He gives me a look. "Alright. Yeah."

I see him perched on the counter, legs crossed at the ankles, forearms supporting him, and I can't help but imagine pale, brassy wings sprouting from his back, the gentle feathers curling around him - _Shut up, Pete._

This is going to get frustrating. Soon.

"So..."

"So, what?" I bounce my leg a couple times.

He shrugs. "Well... Hayley's been talking to her boss for the last week, and they've been looking for new hires, and... I might be... Getting a job at the coffee shop." His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. "Pete, I'm getting a job."

Despite myself, I'm smiling. "Mikey... Mikey, that's awesome."

"So, sorry this is short notice, but I'm starting Monday."

"That's... Wow, that's great. That's fine-"

* * *

So it's not a good shock when I see Mikey at the cash register Monday.

"Hello, can I- Pete! What are you doing here?"

"Hanging out. Per usual. Why?"

"Um... I dunno."

Hayley turns around. "He's still in training, cut him some slack."

I wink. "Don't worry, I'm sure he'll do fine."

She laughs. Mikey rolls his eyes.

I smile. "So, double-shot vanilla latte?"

Hayley chuckles. "Pete, you're an asshole."

"I know."

Mikey gives me a dirty look. "Pete, that's two-sixty-four."

I smile, tilting my head and trying _desperately_ to give myself dimples as I take my wallet out, push two dollars into his outstretched hand, and make a point of counting each coin, getting the exact amount. On a last-second decision, I give him a nickel instead of the four pennies.

If _looks_ could _kill._

Scowl etched onto his face, he gives me the most oxidized, marred penny he can find. "Have a nice day."

"Oh, you love me." I meet eyes with Hayley. "He loves me, right?"

Brendon looks at me from cleaning out grounds from one of the machines. "Yes, he does, Pete." His voice sounds a little high, a little airy.

Hayley leans over the counter. "Sit down and wait, seriously. Brendon's figured out how to get extra tips."

I obey, sliding over to the bar, taking a seat, and watching intently.

I think someone's put music on the speakers at first. Until I see Brendon's lips moving systematically.

Holy shit, the dude's amazing. His voice is pitched high; it's strong, theatrical, and clear as glass. He's singing some by what might be Fun. It sounds like Fun.

As the next guy, some guy with a large, fluffy mane of dark hair comes in, Hayley joins in with Brendon, singing a different melody, synced with him. Her voice is just as strong, but sweet, not as crystalline.

Fluff Hair's eyebrows rise comically as his eyes follow the two barista. Mikey sighs, and leans a little towards the guy. "Hey, can I help you?"

He nods. "Uh... plain latte, medium?"

Mikey taps a few keys. "That's one-ninety-eight-" The dude blindly passes him two dollars. "Oh, alright."

As he hands back the two cents back, Fluff Hair adds it to a wad of - five bucks, wow - and sticks it in the tip jar.

Hayley is grinning as she hands me a mug. She winks, a glimmer in her green eyes. She turns, grabs the other mug, and sets it on the counter. Immediately, the guy's grabbing the mug, and rushing out the door.

Hayley and Brendon are tense for one, two seconds, before whooping and sharing a high five, a smack echoing through the shop.

"Fuck yeah," Brendon says.

* * *

Mikey finds me playing bass when he comes back to the apartment from... Shit, his _job._

I slam my hands above the strings, cutting the sound off. "Mikey. Hey."

"Hey. Keep on playing?" He asks. He drops a plastic bag with what smells like Chinese food on the counter, and sits next to me on the couch. "I didn't know you played."

Funny he says that when it's on a fancy-ass stand in my room; when there's an amp always next to the couch. "I do."

He leans next to me, places his head in the crook of my shoulder, and _oh, okay._ "Play?"

I pull the E string a few times, and start playing a basic line, letting the pads of my fingers dig into the thick, coiled strings, onto the cool fretboard. I bob my head to a beat in my head, feeling Mikey's hair crease against my neck.

I can almost feel his smile radiating through him.

As I end with a final pluck of the E string, he sighs. "You got off beat a couple times, but other than that, you're pretty good." He lifts his head to grin at me. "You just have no true sense of rhythm."

"Haha." I tug the strap off to give the bass to him. "You play, then."

He smiles at me, nervously, as he puts the strap on, leans the bottom between his crossed legs, and curves his long, bony fingers over the fretboard. He gives me a look over the top of his glasses, and presses his fingers into the frets, and _plays._

Suddenly, it's not Mikey with a bass; it's Mikey and the bass. He's playing something pretty simple, about five notes in different successions,, but rather than just going crazy with it, he's immersing himself with it.

He's beautiful.

So.

So.

So.

_So._

_Beautiful._

Halfway through one of his bass riffs, he stops playing, and looks at me. "You're staring."

"No, I'm not." One of his eyebrows rise. I sigh. "Well, I was staring, but I'm not anymore."

He hands the bass back to me. "Thanks for letting me play this." He gets up to start getting the takeout out from its bag. "It's a nice bass."

"Thanks." I turn the amp off, prop the bass up against it, and lay on the couch. "When did you play bass?"

"Um... High school, why?"

I shrug. "Just wondering."

He nods. "Okay."

He travels to the other side of the counter, into the kitchen, opens the cabinet, pulls out a plate, and grabs a few forks. He sets them on the counter, opens one of the rice boxes, and starts shoveling it onto his plate. "You gonna eat?"

I start getting up. "Yeah, sure." I pull myself up into a sitting position, dangle my legs off the couch, and push myself onto my feet, walking myself over to the counter where the Chinese food has been set. I look into the containers. Maybe beef and broccoli, maybe Kung Pao chicken, maybe Lo Mein. I decide the chicken looks safe enough to eat.

Mikey slides a plate under my nose, a fork perched on top, glinting. "Here."

I spill too much rice onto the plate and not enough Kung Pao.

As I chew the food, Mikey looks up at me. "So, Pete."

"So, Mikey."

I dunno." He sighs through his nose.

"Are you sure you don't believe in angels?"

"Why, are you trying to get an answer out of me?"

I shrug. "Maybe?"

"Look, Pete. I don't believe in angels. Understand?" He sighs, letting his fork clatter onto his plate. "Seriously, angels. Winged servants of God. How the concept has stayed with people for this long is beyond me."

"Mikey-"

"No, Pete." He glares. "Stop fucking interrogating me for something that's not there. I don't even know what kind of answer you want from me. Why do you care so goddamn much about this?"

"Well, I just-"

"Just what? Were looking for some kind of blessing? Because no. That's just horrible." He picks up his fork, spears a piece of soy-smothered beef, and violently pushes it into his mouth. "Seriously."

I sigh. "Mikey-"

"Go to hell, Pete."

My heart is beating out of my chest. My head pounds like chisels are finding their way out. I cough a few times, and feel tightness in the insides of my wrists.

My mind goes black, and-

_"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again."_

_"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again."_

The thorn tattoos feel tight, tight, tight, like their digging into my skin.

_"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again."_

_"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again._"

Fucking broken record in my mind, and-

_"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again."_

_"Sertum Spinarum. The boy of thorns. We meet again."_

The apartment goes black as the all-too familiar tingling in my fingers begins.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm laying down on the floor in the kitchen. My hands have been placed over my chest, which has been soaked with water. Lights are too bright, all of a sudden, and no hangover has ever delivered a headache quite like this.

"Fuck," Mikey mutters, hovering, floating above me, "I didn't mean it literally."


	8. Ch 8: The Way The Doctor Made Me

**A/N: Thank you, Inu, for kicking my ass into finishing this chapter.**

**Firstly: I'm back. I'm sorry I've been lazy. Second: It's Kira the dead ninja's birthday! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, I KNOW I'M EMBARRASSING KIRA RIGHT NOW, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO HER! So wish her that. :P Third: Nanowrimo is nigh! My novel this year is called Death Before Dishonor, and it's amazing and you'll see it in November when I'm allowed to write it.**

**Enjoy this, and have fun!**

**~Sunshine**

"Father, what did Kezia tell you?"

He gives me a dirty look over the rimless top surfaces of his reading glasses; a copy of Pet Semetary is still superglued to his clenching hands. Because damn, this priest likes his Stephen King.

"Pete, just calm down. And no, I can't tell you."

"Why?"

He sighs. "I'm a priest, not a middle-aged woman. I'm not going to tell you because it's my job. Kezia talked to me privately, and-"

"But she was talking about me, I think you should let me know, since I was the subject-"

"No, Pete."

"Yes, Father-"

"_Pete, I said no._"

"Why?"

"Because I'm supposed to be able to keep everyone's damn secrets, alright? For the last time, do you see this collar?" A pale finger jabs at his throat.

"Yeah, I have eyes."

"Obviously. But I can't tell you what she said!"

"Why?"

Because..." A sound of frustration escapes from his mouth as he shoves the book down and rips the glasses off. "Look, I don't know what I can do with you. You just have to calm down, and shut the fuck up-" holyshitheswore- "about it, unless you give me a damn good reason why I should tell you."

I stand. "Fine."

The whole time I'm leaving (which includes standing, pushing my chair in, giving Father Seacrest a dirty look, walking two steps, feeling the carpet under my feet, turning to give the Father another dirty look, walking a few more steps, closing my hand over the doorknob, giving the Father one last dirty look, and opening the door), I feel his eyes boring holes into my neck.

I stick my head into the hall, where a hoodie clad Mikey is hunched over a phone, texting his thumbs off.

"Okay, Mikey, it's your turn."

He looks up, nods, and puts his phone away. "I'm coming."

I re-enter the office, and sit down in one of the chairs, not tearing my eyes from Father Seacrest's for a second. He raises his eyebrows, settling back into the seat.

I hear footsteps, dampened by the burgundy carpet.

"Hello, Father, I'm Mikey. Nice to meet you."

"...Mikey."

"Pete's roommate."

"Oh. Oh! Hello. You're Mikey."

"Yes, I am."

"Okay, so how is this supposed to convince me to tell you what Kezia said to you?"

Mikey sighs, rolling his eyes and giving me a dirty look in the process. "No one told me that Pete shot fire from his hands."

The sound that Father Seacrest is between the squeal that comes from a ten-year-old girl at the mention of Justin Bieber, and a full on gasp.

"...Father?"

He clears his throat. "Yes. You're going to say something?"

"Yeah. I think I know what Kezia said."

I turn to him. "You do?"

"Yeah, I do."

"How?"

'I have something that you don't, Pete. That's intuition."

"I'm intuitive!"

"Yeah. Right."

"You're just jealous because I am so... Smooth, and, and, and... Clandestine, and-"

"Ooh, big-ass fancy word!-"

"You're just jealous-"

"Am not!-"

"Really-"

"Both of you!" We turn to Father Seacrest. "Are you grown men, or toddlers? Mikey, what were you going to say?"

"Right." He clears his throat. "Um... So, maybe... Pete is... Okay, Pete, are you going to start shooting fire out of your fingers again?"

I shrug. "Dunno."

"Can you cover your ears?"

"Why? I wanna know."

The Father sighs. "Pete, it's probably a better idea. I don't want this place burning down."

I sigh, suctioning my palms over my ears.

I watch how the shapes of Mikey's lips change shape, how his eyes close, narrow, widen, his eyebrows furrow and arch. He grimaces a lot, and a few times, pauses, and many times, says several sentences without meeting the Father's eyes.

I slowly pull one hand away from the cup of my ear.

"I think what Kezia was getting at... Was that she thinks that Pete's a demon or something."

I feel a tightening in my gut, but I let it pass; at least my wrists don't hurt. Not yet.

"Kezia took Pete here, right? I remember something about Pete saying Kezia was trying to convert him or something. But Kezia's not even part of the church, is she?" Silence. "Father, this is true, right? She took him here to show you about the fire shit. Father, can you answer me?"

Both Mikey and the Father meet my eyes. I fake it, and, in a louder voice than usual, yell, "Are you two done?"

"Not yet," Father Seacrest calls. In a lower voice, I hear him continue in a lower voice with, "You're right, Mikey. Kezia is, and has never been part of the church. And yes, she took him to my office because of the fire. But what could make you think Pete was a demon, or that Kezia even said something along those lines?"

"Father, I-" He coughs. "I know Pete came here. I know he told you he thinks I'm an angel."

"So?"

Mikey looks over his shoulder to give me a look, before turning back to the Father, making a come-here gesture, leaning over the desk, and muttering something next to his ear, lips hardly moving.

When he falls back into his seat, the Father's eyes are blown. "Really? Because-"

"I'll talk to you some other time, alright? About it. But everything's unraveling about his life, _now_, and it's starting to scare me. Kezia told me... Things have been getting weirder since I came here. Into their lives. It's just this constant hanging of the word _maybe_ above me, you know?"

"I don't know, but yes."

"And I think he's started to figure it out. I know he's at least... Seen... My brother."

He shrugs, and the Father's eyes raise. "Ah."

"Yeah." Mikey clears his throat. "All that."

"You realize that Pete's going to eventually know, if not already?"

"I know. I wish I could just stop it, but..." He dips his head, and the sunlight from the window hits some of the straighter strands of his hair. Glimmers of various bronzes flash in my eyes, highlighted with gold and copper.

Silence hangs.

"Pete, you can start listening again," the Father calls.

One of my hands pops as I take them off my ears.

Mikey seems to have noticed that.

* * *

Mikey looks over my shoulder, into the fridge. "So, what do we have today?"

I shrug, taking out yet another box of pizza. "Let's see if this is any good." I throw it on the counter, close the fridge, and glide across the minuscule kitchen to open the box. It's cheese, grease spots on the cardboard. It looks about two days old. It should be safe.

Mikey takes a slice and tears his teeth into it, and, okay, that's that.

We eat, leaned against the counter, in complete silence. I begin to sneak a few stares at him. With an odd thought, I realize that Mikey's eyelashes are really long. They're pretty-"

He notices I'm looking at him, and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

I look away. "Nothing."

"I know you were listening."

I give him a bewildered stare over my pizza. "What?"

"Pete motherfucking Wentz, I know you were listening to Father Seacrest and I talking-"

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Read your lips?"

"How much did you hear?" He violently bites the rest of his crust into his mouth, chews with a certain kind of violent gusto, and swallows while he crosses his arms.

I deliver a venomous stare right back. "I heard enough."

"Oh, enough, very detailed. _What _did you _hear_, Pete?"

I shrug. "I know what you think of me. I know you somehow know what's in my mind and my actions. What the actual fuck, Mikey?"

"Well, why did you even go to the Father, talking about fucking _angels?_ What the fuck, yourself-"

"Oh, so what am I? What am I to you?"

"Fucking crazy, that's what."

"I'm the crazy one? You're the one who thinks I'm a demon!"

I realize that my voice echoed around the room - the neighbors are going to hate me.

Mikey's eyes are wide, his jaw slack for a couple seconds. Then, he composes himself, and starts yelling again. "Well, yeah, guess what? I do! Not even in the sense of the literal! You're a fucking monster!"

"A monster? Well, you're one _hell_ of an angel!" I don't even care what I'm saying now. "Who gave you the fucking authority to say what I am? Will you get your fucking head out of your fucking ass and just listen? _I don't care what you think of me, but don't make everything known to people who have every right to think it's true!_ Mikey, do you know what you could to to us both?"

"Pete, what the fuck are you saying?"

"I... I... I..." I cough.

"Well?" Mikey snaps, but even now, it's softer. "Pete?"

"I... I don't know."

Mikey clears his throat. "Pete. That was scary. You... You didn't sound yourself. You were louder, like, your voice was echoing, and... Your eyes were red for a second."

My eyes widen. "What?"

"Your eyes. They went red for a second. Blood red. Just a flash."

I shake my head. "What do you mean?"

Neither of us can say anything as someone knocks twice on the door. Pause. One more knock.

I'm racing across the apartment to open the door.

Patrick looks thinner, t-shirt, jeans, and jacket hanging a little off him. His strawberry blonde hair hangs a little around his ears, like his head. His shoulders are hunched, his spine curled, his whole _soul_ defeated. A pinstriped fedora claws at his crown, shielding his face. A backpack hangs off his hand.

He looks up. His eyes are red and swollen, his face sagging, his voice ragged. "Can I crash on your couch?"

* * *

"I don't even know how it happened," Patrick moans, "I made dinner, and she had just started talking about how she's seen people fall in and out of love, and how that great, fucking, magical _spark_ just dies." He shrugs. "Three hours later, I get kicked out."

Mikey sets a six pack of something down on the coffee table and flops between Patrick and I on the couch, holding a can of Pabs Blue Ribbon between his knees as he passes matching cans to the both of us. We open our respective cans in unison. We clink the cans together; the sound they make is drowned out and a little hollow.

"To singlehood," I mutter.

"To happy moving out," Mikey continues.

"To whatever," Patrick finishes.

We sip in silence.

"She was a bitch, anyway," I start, "Worse than that Anna chick. At least you didn't date Zania for four years. How the fuck did you put up with that?"

"I dunno."

"When we get the rest of your crap, Patrick, we're gonna egg the shit out of that house-"

"Mikey, no."

I see him roll his eyes. "Fine, then. Her car." His eyes light up as he finishes a particularly deep swig. "You know what we can do? We can get, like, car window paint or something, if that shit exists, and write, like, 'Zania is a whore' on it."

"Very original," I mutter. "But yeah, Patrick, revenge is called for. She broke your heart and left you to sleep on my couch. No bitch does that."  
We finish the three beers, and Mikey gets three more beers out for us.

"To getting Patrick's crap back," I say.

"To finding myself a place to live," Patrick says, voice slurring more than mine.

"To revenge," Mikey states.

We drink.

By the third round, my vision has gone a little fuzzy at the edges, and suddenly, talk of egging Zania's car becomes very prevalent in our drunk conversation. I get up to retrieve the fourth round of beer, and stumble back to the couch. "This is fun."

"Ain't it," Mikey giggles.

I giggle back. "You're giggle is funny."

Patrick joins in on the giggling. "Both your giggles are funny." His giggles get louder. "We must sound high off our fucking asses."

"Well, we're getting drunk off our fucking asses."

And suddenly, we're laughing. Loud, rapturous laughter that reverberates off the walls.

"To getting drunk," Patrick laughs.

"To egging your ex's car," Mikey snorts.

"To sounding high off our asses," I giggle.

* * *

I need water. It doesn't help that it's three in the fucking morning.

I sneak into the kitchen, retrieve a glass from one of the cabinets, turn on the sink, and pour myself a glass. I chug the sweet, sweet, contaminated liquid, and greedily pour myself another glass.

I drink that one.

And the next.

I pour myself another glass, intending on taking it back into my room, and look at Patrick. He seems peaceful, chest rising and sinking, eyes fluttering.

I turn back to my room, when something on the floor catches my eye. I pad to it, bend over, and pick it up.

It's a feather. It's a glimmering, golden-bronze that gleams such, even illuminated by the lights on the fridge and microwave. The feather is long, six or seven inches long, curving a little, the hooked threads splitting from their perfect line in some places. It's gorgeous.

I walk back into my room, close the door, set the glass on the nightstand, open the drawer, and place the feather in the drawer, with all the rest of Mikey's feather's that I've found in the apartment.


	9. Ch 9: It's For The Bodies I Claim

**A/N: Oh, Mah Gawd! Ain't ya proud o' meh?**

**FYI, this is a RARE occasion that I will ever post two chapters of the same chapter within the same week. Within two days, damn. And a chapter this long - and eventful! But yar. This doesn't happen commonly. Savor it like a fine glass of spoiled milk - I MEAN WHATEVER YOU WANT TO DRINK THAT CAN BE CONSIDERED FINE!**

**I owe this chapter - and you know what? Probably all my chapters - to the overenthusiasm, excitability, motivational talks, and general cheerleading of Inu (Inu-Chan the music friend), Kira (Kira the Dead Ninja), and Meg (myTheoryofagoodLife13). And Moonray for both the above, and dealing with my fangirlish squeals over my idiotic plots in the middle of Chem-Phys (she says I should be Pete Wentz for Halloween, should I do it?). And y'all? Say thanks to them of the above, and the egg-and-flour idea, by READING OUR STORIES. AND REVIEWING THEM.**

**Shameless advertising, right there, bitches!**

**Alright. Chin up, kiddos, here's another chappie!**

**~Sunshine**

God may have been smiling upon us or some shit like that, but we manage to buy Patrick the on-sale apartment the floor above up by the next week. Within the next two days, we are in and out of Zania's stupid, suburban house, piling boxes into trunks and backseats, driving in and across the expanses of Chicago, as that cold-hearted bitch watches with slit eyes. By the end of the next week, Patrick is settled, happy, and keeping two cartons of eggs and flour in his new fridge.

As we walk to the med school at U of Illinois, Patrick makes a huffing sound. "You sure it's gonna stick?"

"It's gonna work," Mikey mutters, barely controlling a grin, "The shit that went down in Belleville..."

I'm desperately holding back endless strings of Jersey jokes. Instead, I hold the tupper of whisked egg a little tighter to my chest.

"This is it," Patrick says, pointing to a bright green Ford Fiesta. "That's her car."

I fish a basking brush out of my pocket. "Perfect."

In unison, we pull hoods above our heads, and I open the container of whisked egg, dipping the hairs of the brush into the fluffed, pale yellow liquid, handing it to Patrick. "You do the honors."

He nods, dips the brush in the liquid a little more, and writes a Z on the car. He dips it again, and continues writing. The name Zania is quickly finished. While he does so, Mikey takes a carton of eggs from my bag, and starts artfully egging the car, one off the corner of the backseat door and the roof, so it creates a fan, one smack in the middle of the windshield. The shells scatter, the white and yolk gently sliding down the curved surface.

Patrick steps away from the car, smiling. "You get to do the flour, Pete."

I grin, retrieve my bag, find the bag of flour, fist a handful, and throw it. And throw more. And more. White flies everywhere, into the street, onto the car, onto our hoodies and into our faces. I could care much less.

When I'm done, Mikey steps in front of the egg-and-flour mess, and blows the stray flour away. The rest remains: Zania Acosta-Jones is a whore.

We run like you can't believe.

* * *

We finally stop when we've made it to Mikey's coffee shop, wheezing, coughing, panting, laughing.

"That..." I hiss into the air, "Was _awesome_."

Mikey laughs, hacking a lung into it. "Mmnh."

"Wait, shouldn't we be past this level of maturity?"

We turn to Patrick. "What? No!"

"Nevermind." He laughs heartily. "That was worth it." He turns to Mikey. "Could we get coffee?"

He laughs, gasping for air. "Yeah, sure."

We walk in. "Sorry, Hayley."

She looks up from an open cash register. "Oh, what the hell, you three? What were you doing?"

I approach the register. "Egging Patrick's ex's car, why?" Hayley's jaw drops as I turn back to an approaching Mikey and Patrick. "Whaddya guys want?"

"Chai mocha," Patrick says.

"Double-shot latte with vanilla syrup," Mikey breathes, turning to me with a little smile that's making my knees go a little weak.

"Make that two," I finish.

Hayley rolls her eyes, typing a few things into a computer. "Nine forty-seven, Pete." I give her a ten, and she pours the change into my hand, which I throw into the tip jar. "Thanks, hon!"

"Yeah, sure, Pete." She points to Mikey. "You're getting your coffee, and then you're fucking _working_, alright?"

He raises his hands above his head. "Yeah, sure, lady."

Brendon turns around. "What were you guys doing?"

"Egging a car," Hayley mutters darkly.

I think she was expecting Brendon to reprimand us, but instead, he whoops. "Who's car?"

"Patrick's ex's," I call.

"That's great! Congrats on getting rid of her, Patrick!"

"Did you ever meet her?" I ask.

"A couple times. She was bland."

I hold back a guffaw. "Preach it, Bren."

He finishes the coffees, and sets them on the counter. "Enjoy, mofos."

* * *

I've finished wrapping someone's tattoo and have sent them out the door. I quickly take out my phone, and text Mikey. _hey. :)_

It takes a few seconds, but he replies. _hey urself, P. ;)_

_so. how's coffee_

_coffee is coffee_

I smile. _i bet it is. ;)_

_def._

_howre H and B?_

_theyre good. doing shit_

_coffee shit?_

_coffee shit_

_:)_

_:)_

I hear someone clear they're voice, and I put the phone down for a second, to see who it is.

It's Gerard. He wears black jeans, frayed, dirty Dockers, a charcoal Dawn Of The Dead - the original one, mind you - under a black leather bomber jacket. His previously shoulder-length ebony hair has now been trimmed, cutting across his forehead, sticking up at the cowlick and around the ears. He scratches his neck nervously. His hazel-green eyes sparkle with a certain kind of fear.

"Gerard," I say, "Hi."

"Hello, Pete." He chuckles a little bit. "Can I... Um... Come in?"

I make an arms-open, come-on-in gesture. "Welcome to my shithole."

As he walks in, looks around, winces at the sterilization cabinet marked 'needles', et cetera, I pick up the phone. _dude, ur brothers in my room_

_! :O_

_i know_

_wtf hes doing there_

_dunno he just walked in_

_shit_

_wish me luck_

_good fucking luck_

"So," I begin, balancing the phone on my thigh, "How are you, Gerard?"

"I'm fine," he sighs, turning back to me. "And you?"

I shrug. "I'm alright. What kind of business brings you here?"

He repeats my shrug, leaning against the counter. "Wanted to talk to you about some shit." He walks across the room, and shuts the door. The doorknob clicks.

"Please don't rape me," I mutter.

Gerard raises an eyebrow. "Why the fuck would I rape you? Not worth my time." He sits on the counter. "So. Mikey. My brother."

"Yes. Mikey. Your brother. My roommate. What about him?"

"I know about the feathers."

I feel my shoulders tense, my heart speed up to a hammering tempo, my breathing labor. I nervously look up at him. "What? Feathers? Gerard, what the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean-"

"Pete. I'm not stupid." His eyes bore into mine, and okay, that's intimidating.

"Okay, what the fuck is your problem? Are you stalking me? Are you just being the overprotective older brother? Because Mikey's twenty-two, so if you're gonna try protect him, he can protect himself. I'm in his defense."

"No, he can't." Gerard shakes his head; his eyebrows furrow, and his dark green eyes seem to glitter with what could nearly be tears. "Pete, Mikey's not strong enough to protect himself. At least, not emotionally."

"...What do you mean?"

"I assume Mikey told you about the three years or so he took trashing himself and being a self-proclaimed scene queen?"

"Yeah, what does this have to do with anything? He got over it."

"Do you know why he threw himself into that kind of shit, Pete?"

"No. Why?"

Gerard's eyes dart across the linoleum for a second, before he grips the collar of his bomber jacket. "Do you mind if I take this off?"

I shrug. "Go ahead." Because who knows? I could have been hallucinating when I saw the wings.

He smirks. "Awesome."

An arm snakes out of a sleeve, and he pulls his other arm out of its respective sleeve by holding the neck of the jacket, before setting the jacket on the counter. He stretches his arms out in front of him, bends back to crack his spine. Those paper-white wings stretch from their removed leather confines, stretch above him, out, and then settle with the crook hanging down close to his elbows, the tail feathers grazing the floor. "Thanks, man," he says, "they were starting to hurt."

I blush and look away, trying _desperately_ not to stare at the feathered forms. "Uh, huh?"

"What? It's not like you haven't seen them before."

"Yeah... What?"

"Pete, I think you need to know, if you don't know already." He sighs. "Mikey... Pete, Mikey and I... We're..."

"Angels," I finish.

All the dark haired guy does is nod. "But Mikey... He fell..." He coughs.

"What? He fell dot-dot-dot? Continue this, Gerard, you've already bared your fucking wings and started to tell a story. Stay a while."

He sighs. "All fucking right." He looks down at his shoes. "Mikey... When he was seventeen, he Fell. He Fell because he gave into desires."

I stare a little dumbly. "Desires?"

"Well... Mikey fell for this guy, alright? Back in Jersey. I told him to get over it, but he didn't listen." Gerard exhales heavily through his nose. "But when he Fell, he managed to keep his wings. And from what I know, the Fallen molt their wings within a month. Not Mikey. He's been living in disguise since he was seventeen, Pete."

I look away, thinking.

If I was eighteen... But I didn't have anything to hide. But Mikey... How much _was_ he hiding?

"He tried to get this guy to at least like him, once he found him. Hell, when Mikey picked up the bass? He tried auditioning for this guy's band. And he got rejected. So, he wasted life away from that point on with pot, sex, and shitty beer like you can't believe. Thank God he met Andy when he did, because he was ramming himself into the ground. Andy managed to get Mikey out of that shithole with two hours of mental therapy and stripping Mikey of every poison covering him.

"So... Does Andy know?"

Gerard simply shakes his head. "No. No he doesn't. I doubt anyone knows, apart from me, and what's now you."

I nod, and look back up. "Why am I not surprised by all of this? Why am I not freaking out, or denying it, or whatever?"

Gerard smiles. "Back of your mind, Pete. Back of it. You're no angel, Wentz, but you're sure as fuck not human."

"What do you - What?" I shake my head. "Gerard, why are you telling me this?"

He shrugs. "I'm a Malachim, Pete: a messenger. I just say what I'm directed to say."

He stretches his wings out to the side again, before setting them against his back once more. They retract perfectly, tucking themselves flush against the curve of his spine, the crook blending just with his shoulders, the flight feathers wrapping themselves at his hips, before he grabs the bomber jacket and slides it onto his body.

As he opens the door to leave, he smiles. "Take care, Boy With The Thorns."

* * *

"I told you Gerard came into my room after an appointment, right?" I look up from the ramen.

"What happened? I know he came in, but you never told me what he said."

"Well... He told me a bit about your life in Jersey. About the guy."

Mikey sighs, sadly. "What can I say? I was young, naive, stupid. I had to get over him, I just didn't choose the best method." He looks up. "He... Didn't tell you anything else, did he?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

* * *

I open the drawer, and take out the longest feather.

In the last glimmers of dusk, the feather gains this otherworldly shine. Each barbed thread glitters a different shade of that bright, bright bronze, streaked with copper. I lay the feather down on my thigh, and pick out one of the more delicate, curled ones, one that would probably be closer to the base of the wing. It's still the warm, buttery metal color that the last feather was, only with more hints of silver.

I place the silvery feather back in the drawer, and pick up the first, longer feather again, feel it under my fingertips, drag it against my cheek. It's soft - silky. It's like touching water to my face.

I bring it back to eye level and watch is shine just a little bit more.

The door opens, and Mikey looks in. "Hey, Pete, I think I broke the toaster-"

His voice dies in his throat.

"Pete... What are you doing?"

I try not to look up, try to save a little bit of my dignity. "Hey, Mikey."

"What is that?"

"It's a feather I found, why?"

I barely glance up. Mikey's face has gone completely pale, his lip quivering. "Where... Did you find that feather?"

"...In... In the apartment?"

I look down, but I still feel Mikey's eyes boring into me.

"Your life in Jersey wasn't the only thing Gerard told me," I start.

"I figured."

"You Fell."

I hear the rapid sucking in of a breath, feel the tenseness in the air. "Why did he tell you?"

"He said I needed to know." I pause. "You know why, don't you?"

"I... Know a little."

I finally look up. "Why, Mikey?" I shake the feather, as if that will clarify my point even more. "Why this?"

"What do you mean?"

I put the feather on the bed, stand, and approach. "Mikey... Gerard said... Why are they still there?"

He freezes, looks down. "I don't know. I just-"

"Can I see them?"

And okay, that made him look like a deer in the headlights. Great fucking going, Wentz.

"W-W-Why?" He clears his throat, and I can see a new determination, a new sense of self-defense coursing through his veins. "Why would you want to?"

"I just... I need to see them, alright?"

"Why do you need to see them?" He snaps.

"It's just - I mean-" I sigh. "Look, Mikey, we both know they're there. Can I... Please?"

It takes him a few seconds before he gives a silent answer, and starts unzipping his jacket.

As the black form falls to the floor, I almost see no difference in Mikey's form, just the edge of bony, jutting shoulders and striking collarbones marking themselves from inside the fabric of the gray shirt. He swallows, and looks down, closing his eyes, clenching his fists, and allowing a soft rustle to stir the room.

Two identical, curving sets of bone, sinew, and feather stretch out from where his shoulder blades should be.

I turn on a light, realizing the darkness of the room, and... Holy shit.

Mikey's wings are about the length of the base of his neck to his knee, the bend curving past his shoulder, the flight feathers dipping down to his thighs, circling around his form. Each feather glints a different shade of bronze, the ones closer to his spine a deep, tarnished color and a gentle, autumn-moon-gold, the farther feathers perfect blondes and wondrous butter hues.

I reach a hand out, then pull it back. "Is it alright if...?" He nods, and I let my hand travel forward.

They're so _soft._

I stroke each feather my fingertips come into contact with, each giving way to the gentle weight of my hand. I stroke the plumes in the center of the wing, and work my hand against the flow of the feathers, over the arm; I skip my body past his wing to feel the backs of the forms. From where Mikey's wings connect to his back, the whole back of the t-shirt has been cut out, only two strips of cloth a few inches wide at the collar and hem of the shirt keeping it still in the dignity of it being a shirt.

The feathers aren't as soft, they're a bit more weathered, and in a few places, there are little holes where there's no feather. There are a few devastating spots on the wing where the tips have been singed black; my heart drops, and I have no idea why. I glide my hand across his spine, to the base of the other wing, and feel the division between skin and feather. Underneath the fluff, I feel a sturdy, thick bone that seems to graft to his shoulder blade. I float my hand up the solid curve, and curl myself back to the front of Mikey's body.

I let my hand finish sliding up to the crook of his shoulder, then up his neck, stopping at his jaw. He looks up.

In hindsight, I really don't see why I kissed him. But at the moment, it seemed completely proper. Have I mentioned that I'm an idiot, yet?

I hear Mikey gasp, feel it against my lips, before he releases some of the tension and kisses back. It's only a few moments of gentle bliss, but it feels like the forever of drinking water after being in a desert for weeks.

I would have loved for it to be longer, but he pulls away, wide eyed, and says, "No... No, I can't do this."

"Can't do what?"

He steps away, looks out the large windows, where the useless balcony was placed off this room, back to me. His wings are stretching. "No. I just... This is wrong, and I'll never get anywhere with this, and-" He chokes. "Pete, _I can't love you."_

I can't even follow him with my eyes when I see him race across the room, unlock and open that cursed sliding door, step onto that cursed, cursed balcony, and jump off into that cursed, cursed, _cursed_ night.

All that there is, is a glimmer of bronze, and then, nothing.

My hand is still in place from where it was cupping Mikey's jaw.


	10. Ch 10: It Better Be Just My Size

**A/N: HEYHEYHEYHEYHEY!**

**I'm sorry this is late (I'm sorry all my chapters are supremely late). I'm also sorry this is really kinda short. But I had do give you this before I warned you.**

**As you many know, today is Halloween (Happy Ieroween, others of the MCRmy!), which means tomorrow is November 1st. Which means the beginning of Nanowrimo. Which means, for the ENTIRE MONTH OF NOVEMBER, I will not be posting anything on FFnet in favor of posting my new novel, Death Before Dishonor, for this whole month on FPress! Go here for that account:**

** u/878283**

**I'm sure you're dumb/smart enough to figure that out.**

**Also! BOY DIVISION AND TOMORROW'S MONEY! That stuff is SWEET. Admit it. Admit it. Admit it.**

**And enjoy that lovely picture of that cat eating spaghetti in the middle of the music video of I Don't Care. You know you want to.**

**~Sunshine**

Patrick might have found me crying on the bathroom floor.

"Christ," he mutters, "How long have you been here?"

Through a sob, I shrug. The rug on the bathroom floor causes a little more friction against my face as I enact the movement.

"Where's Mikey-" I start bawling again. "Oh, God, Pete, I am _so_ sorry-"

"Patrick," I choke, "just leave me alone."

"You know what? No."

"Why?" I suck in a breath. "Why, Patrick, why?"

"You're gonna kill yourself like this. Pete, just fucking listen to me."

I shake my head. Patrick sighs, knees the ground, wraps two arms around me, and pulls me into a sitting position. I slump against him.

"I'm not gonna get up," I say.

"Well, you fucking better."

"What's the point? Why should I?"

"Is it worth dying over it?"

"Patrick?"

He sighs. I can practically feel him eyerolling. "What?"

"You don't know anything. You don't know the half of it."

"What don't I know?"

"Everything."

"Then can I know?"

"I dunno."

He starts standing up, locking his arms around my waist to pull me up with him. "That's it. You need food. And light. And talking."

"Shuttup," I mutter.

"No."

I'm dragged across the bathroom, through the door, until I get my feet dragged under me, and I'm forced to stand back up to keep from falling face first.

(Not that I would have cared.)

I vaguely see myself getting carried out of the bathroom, into the hall, and towards the kitchen. The couch flashes past my eye. I try and press my heels into the hardwood to stop Patrick from carrying me, but just end up stumbling again.

And then I find my ass in a chair.

And a mug of coffee in my hands. So of course I drink.

"Alright," Patrick says, "Start talking."

"What am I supposed to say?"

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "I don't know, Pete, maybe something along the lines of _why are you crying_ and_ where's Mikey_ and _why are you holding a feather like it's your lifeline_ and _when was the last time you ate_ and shit like that."

"I'm not hungry," I dejectedly whisper.

"When did you last eat?"

I shrug. "Friday?"

"And it's Sunday. Pete, are you alright?"

I uncurl the feather from my right hand, and watch how the yellow from the lightbulbs makes it look more blonde than bronze. I start crying again, my ribs (fuck, entire chest), head, and throat aching from the effort. I start coughing, dry heaving; my body falls against the counter.

"I think I'm okay," I say.

"Obviously, not." Patrick circles the counter, and lifts my head and shoulder off the counter. "Pete, please. You have to tell me."

"No I don't," I choke out.

He gives me a look, and I feel like my skin is being stripped from my body.

"He ran away, Patrick. He flew off."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

"What."

"Patrick. I think... I think I saw an angel."

He looks down, nodding, gathering in everything, before he looks up. "You're serious, right, Pete? You're completely sane. Because if you're gonna tell me you're on something, you better do it now."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," I whisper shakily.

He nods. "What do you mean?"

"Remember when you told me about that time when you were four, and you got lost at that fair?"

"Yeah, why?" His eyes start darting side to side with too many nerves. "Why does this matter?"

"Patrick. Mikey's... _Mikey's an angel._"

"Oh. Okay. What the fuck are you actually talking about?"

"Patrick. Mikey has wings. Really fucking pretty wings. And he fell from somewhere. Somewhere up there."

"Up there as in... Heaven or some shit."

"I think so."

"Alright. Recount everything."

"Okay, so..." I cough. "So I met Mikey, okay? And remember when I told you about how we went to Gabe's music hall, or bar, or whatever, with Hayley, and how I went moshing with him?"

"Oh, God, don't tell me you copped a feel in a mosh pit-"

"I didn't! I swear!"

"Then why did you bring up the fucking mosh pit?"

"Because..." I cough. "I... I grabbed Mikey's shoulder, and... There was more than just a shoulder."

Patrick nods. "And you think this was-"

"I'm not done yet."

"...Oh."

"So then Mikey went to go get a breath of fresh air, and I... I might have followed him out, partway-"

"Pete, what the fuck?"

"No, not like that..."

He sighs. "Alright. I'll shut up. What happened?"

"Okay... So then... There was this weird guy he was talking to, and they were saying something about falling... And then the guy stepped into the light, and..." I stare right into Patrick's eyes when I say, "They were white."

It takes him a few moments before he got it, but then his eyes widen. "His wings."

"Then, Mikey, like, a few weeks later... He saw the fire."

And okay, I have never seen Patrick's jaw drop that far down.

"Shit," he mutters.

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "So he talked to Father Seacrest, and... Patrick, he thinks I'm a _demon."_

As I say it, it feels like a weight has been lifted on me. Like I told Patrick a secret that I had been keeping from him for years.

Which, what the _fuck._

"...And then?"

"Then, like... The day we egged Zania's car... That night..." I lift the feather up, and start crying.

They don't stop for a while.

Finally, Patrick just gets it. I know when he hugs me, and says, "I hope we find him."

* * *

"...Pete?"

i look up from my phone. A tiny mass with a shock of pumpkin-colored hair, dressed in black capris and a yellow shirt, peeks out from the door.

'Hayley," I say, and she takes it as the invitation to walk in.

"Hey, Pete." She smiles. "How are you?"

I shrug. "I think I'm alright."

"Okay." She leans against the table.

I see the nerves buzzing around her, and force a smile. I know it must look a little soggy, but it's there anyway. "So, how was your date with Gabe?"

"It was..." She grins, and blushes. "It was great. He took me to the Thai place, the one about two blocks from here? And... He's just a really nice guy, you know? Really sweet, presentable..." She smirks- "Good-looking, and... I just really like him, alright? i'm glad you introduced me to him."

I smile. "That's great, Hayley."

"So... Yeah. And he's taking me for Indian next week. And a movie."

I chuckle. "I'm gonna give that kid so much shit."

"Please don't, Pete."

"Fine, I won't."

We sit in silence.

"So... Is Mikey still sick?"

I freeze up. "Oh! Um... Yeah. Yeah, he's still sick. I don't know when he'll get better."

"Well, can we call him?"

"No!" When she gives me a look, I realize I said that too loud. "I mean... He's... Really tired, and he's been coughing like you can't believe-"

"Oh, yuck." Hayley smiles. "Well... Tell him I said hi. And that I hope he gets better. Brendon says the same."

I smile. "I'll make sure he knows."

God, I hope so.

* * *

As soon as I've plopped myself on the couch, I've taken the feather out from under my shirt and start twirling it between my fingers.

It glitters.

I feel the tears coming, but I swallow them down for just a bit so I can see the threads glitter. I feel a familiar warmth in my chest. And then cold. And then tightness.

As the first tear slides down my cheek, the door gets knocked.

"Patrick, I thought you had the key," I call.

_Knock. Knock._

"Who is it?"

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

I bury my head in my hands when it finally stops, press the feather against my cheek; cry.

_Knockknockknockknockknockkno ckknockknockknockknockknockk nockknockknockknockknockknoc kknock-_

"Patrick, what the-"

Dark hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes stare out from the confines of a black jacket.

"...Gerard?"

He sighs. "Lemme in, motherfucker."

I'm forced to step back and let him in the apartment. He strides in, and his Converse his the hardwood with a squeak. He looks around, eyes raising.

"Fuck, Pete," he says, "This place has become a _shithole._ Are you alright?"

"What do you think?"

He looks around. "...So, Mikey isn't back yet?"

And _whoa, wait, what what what-_

"What?"

He rolls his eyes. "Pete, I know where my brother is. And I know that's his feather you're holding."

"What?" I tuck it in my pocket. "No, it isn't."

He rolls his eyes. "Okay, I know I'm breaking some kind of social grace here, being the guest, but we're not some rich family in South Carolina, we don't have family wealth and pride and shit to worry about, so _go sit down._"

"What?"

"And where do you keep your mugs? And do you have any tea?"

I stare.

"You're gonna need it."

I finally backstep, fall on the couch. "Cabinet to the right of the fridge has mugs. The tea and coffee's left of the microwave."

I hear the clinking of mugs, the lull of water, the hum of a microwave, the rustling of teabags. When Gerard comes back, he's pressing a black mug into my hands.

"It's chamomile," he says, "but it's really hot. Be careful."

I lean over, let the mug slide onto the coffee table, and turn to see the dark haired angel stretching his back.

He looks up. "Hey, is it okay if-"

"Do what you need, man," I mutter, "_Mi casa es tu casa_ and some shit."

"...Okay," He says, dipping his head as he shrugs. He takes the jacket off, throws it on the back of the adjacent armchair, and stretches his wings to the side before he flops into the armchair, saying, "So."

He creates a cool aesthetic with the armchair, black and white on red. He blinks.

"So what?" I croak out, weakly, "Your brother's gone, what do you expect me to do?"

He whistles as he folds his hands over his abdomen. "You really like him, don't you?" I recoil. "Don't get me wrong, I know. I'm an angel, I know shit like this?"

"Shouldn't you be saving someone else right now? Leave me alone."

He smiles, sarcasm licking the corners of his mouth. "Not a guardian. Not an archangel. The concept of saving people assigned to me can suck my dick."

I feel my eyebrows rise. "Okay. That's wonderful."

"Besides, this is personal business. I can stick my ass in it if I want to." He clears his throat. "Enough with me." He leans forward, and his wings shuffle back, the curves arching over his head. "Look, I know what's kind of happening to Mikey right now. And I know, and can answer, one of your bigger worries."

I raise an eyebrow, a silent _what the fuck do you know?_

"Mikey can't go back. Not to where he was. He's stuck. In the mortal world. He can't go back."

I stare at Gerard, at his wings, at his Misfits shirt, at his eyes. "What."

"Mikey's been grounded here. His first instinct is of course, to fly back, but... I don't know what's gonna happen. I trust him that he'll turn back up here sometime."

"...Sometime? _Sometime?_ He goes missing, he has everything behind, and you just _hope_ he'll turn up? What the actual fuck?"

"And what does he have here?"

"He has a home! He has a job! He has friends! He has me! He has-"

Gerard smirks.

"Oh, shit."

He splits the smirk into a smile. "It's alright." He gets up, grabs his jacket. "I just needed to tell you that. He's gonna be back. You'll see him again."

"I... What?"

His wings shuffle back into place, the arcs blending into his shoulder, the tips folding around his hips. He slides the jacket over them, and grins. "Don't worry, Pete, the two of you will be alright."

He starts heading out, opens the door, and smiles. "Drink the tea, Pete. It's good."

With a gentle _snick_ of the door, he's gone.

I reach for the tea, and sip. I'm surprised that it's at a perfect temperature.


	11. Ch 11: There's A Drug In The Thermostat

**A/N: OH MY GOD SHE'S BACK SHE'S BACK SHE'S BACK.**

**Hi there. :)**

**I'm sorry I haven't been around! Between writing a novel - and temporarily being stuck on it - winter break, a brand new semester, and stupid HOMEWORK, I've had hardly any time to write. But now, I've dropped one of my electives (choir, couldn't stand it anymore), so I have a second free period. Which means...**

**WRITING TIME!**

**So now I finished this and you can enjoy it!**

**~Sunshine**

"Pete?"

I look over my shoulder, to see three people walking onto the balcony with me.

"'Trick, Hay, Kezzie, what are you guys doing here?"

The orange-haired barista sits down on the tiles, next to me. "Didn't see you today, none of us did."

I shrug. "I just... I dunno, I was really tired."

Kezia taps my shoulder as she sits next to Hayley, sighing. "What was wrong? Because I could call Andy for you, let him know that you were sick-"

"It's fine, Kez. I already called him."

"...Okay, alright."

Patrick sighs. "So you've just been sitting at your balcony, staring at the sky the whole day?"

"Yeah, got a problem with it?"

"No," he says, sitting on the other side of me. He reaches up, squeezes my shoulder. I turn to him. The face he gives me screams _I know why._

I think _thank you_ right back at him.

"Hey, is Mikey better yet?" Hayley asks.

"No, not yet," I start to lie, "he's in his room, but you might not wanna go in there. Chances are you'll walk by his closed door and catch something."

Hayley grimaces. "Ooh, yuck. But it's alright, I just got Gabe to fill in for now."

"Wait, how is Gabe doing it?"

"He quit his day job at the frozen yogurt place."

Kezia rolls her eyes. "Correction. She means Gabe got fired for being a stubborn ass."

"Kezia!" Hayley snaps. The body piercer starts laughing maniacally.

I can't help but smirk to myself.

"But, seriously, Pete," Hayley says, "we haven't seen you in forever. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just..." I sigh. "Down under the weather."

Patrick nods. "Storm's brewing."

I look up. Steely, blue-gray clouds swirl themselves across the sky.

"Yeah, I mutter, "No shit."

As if in response, the wind decides to curl itself in my hair. _Well, hey, there, Pete._

I sigh. "Gonna have to go back in, soon."

Hayley stands. "Yeah, I was just dropping by anyways, to see how you were doing. I gotta get back to my place before the shit hits the fan." I give her a blank look. "With the storm, I mean," she clarifies.

"Shit hits the fan?" I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

Kezia stands, with Hayley. "Yeah, I should be getting back as well. Not that I love you to death, Wentz, but seriously. I have to eat. And sleep in a place that isn't your ugly-ass red couch."

"It's not ugly!" I protest. "And you can always sleep in-"

"Fuck no am I sleeping in your bed, and Mikey's sick. I'm not getting anywhere him."

Right. Right. Mikey is sick. Not gone, sick.

I stand with Hayley and Kezia, pulling both into a hug. "Alright. I'll see you both later. Love you guys," I say.

Hayley awkwardly pats my back. "Yeah, you too, Pete."

"But no, seriously, let us go," Kez finishes.

I wave as they leave.

"...Okay, dude," Patrick starts.

I sigh. "Yes, Lunchbox?"

I can hear the eyeroll in his voice. "God, Pete."

"Yeah, what?"

He gives me a look that says _dude, what the fuck, you're missing the point here._ "Pete, you can't work this whole Mikey-is-terminally-sick-with-and-out-of-season-case-of-the-flu gig for much longer. After a while, he's gonna have to show up, metaphorically." He sighs "Whatever, it was stupid anyways."

He gets up to leave as well.

"What was stupid?" I ask.

"Telling you that your idea was stupid. What the hell was I thinking? You wouldn't think about it anyways."

"Why?"

"Pete, you'd do anything for him. You're currently working your ass off to create this ploy that Mikey's sick so he won't lose his job." He smiles, but it's a sad one, an exasperated one. "Peter motherfucking Wentz, you are so head over heels for this guy, and I don't think you realize this."

"Okay, fine, whatever," I snap. _You wanna bet that I fucking know, Stump?_

"Pete, I'm really worried about you," he says.

There are a few beats of monotonous silence among the space of the balcony, and the charged air.

"Do you think he's gonna be back?"

His blue-green eyes search mine.

"For your sake, Pete," he says, "I really fucking hope so."

* * *

I find myself staring at a can of Bud, sitting on the couch, debating whether I want to pop the tab and start drinking the canned piss water, or if I want to just put it in the fridge for a time when I have a better reason to be drinking.

I look outside, and see a few fresh, green leaves fly past the window. No shit, windy city. This place is brewing up one fucking storm.

In my mind, behind my eyelids, I see an angel in tattered clothes being tossed in the wind, glittering, bronze wings being battered by the gusts, feathers flying out of the muscle, pinpricks of blood-

I shudder.

It can't happen. There's no wind-battered angel being tossed around, bleeding freely.

I sigh to myself, flop onto the couch, and pick up the bass front next to it. I slide the curve onto my thigh, rest my fingers perpendicular to the strings, curl one of my hands around the neck, and touch my first finger to the E string a few times, thinking.

I absentmindedly start playing the bass riff of Seven Nation Army, not even caring about the cliche of playing the song on a bass. _Dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-duuum, Duuum..._ Until I finally slam my right hand against the strings, and just pull at random notes, dragging the strings almost to breaking point.

I set the bass to the side, and stare at my hands. At the sore, cut fingertips.

The soot is gone, finally away from the ridges under my fingernails, the area now only stained a little gray. I touch my thumbs to my fingertips, circle around the calluses, and stretch the digits, dragging each finger back, at painful, crooked angles to my palms.

I bring out the feather from my pocket, Mikey's feather, and start stroking it. I don't even care that it's been a week, a whole _week_ of him being gone, but I'm still keeping it on me, not letting go. The threads are starting to twist, come out of their ordered, silky texture, but the color hasn't been tainted yet, staying a perfect, sharp bronze, every barb in the threads still catching a spark of bright light.

**_BAM!_**

I fly up from the couch, jumping frantically, whipping my head around to find the source of the noise. Oh, god, please don't let it be that a fucking _branch_ hit one of the _windows_, for fuck's sake.

I look back down at the feather-

The tip is singed black, the fingers of my right hand smoking.

What?

What?

_WHAT?_

No!

I stare at each and every touch of burned, of singed, of _gone._ My mind flashes back to seeing Mikey's wings, the black-tipped, locked feathers. Is this how they were suppose to look?

The feather falls to the floor from my clutching, cupped palm, as another impact - _BAM!_ - echoes through the apartment, bent and glassy, delicate.

The balcony, is my first though, it's plexiglass.

_The balcony._

I find myself jumping up over the back of the couch, dashing through the hall, socks sliding against the hardwood laminate, heart pumping wildly, hand cramping as it flies over the doorknob, trying to push the door in.

There's nothing, at first. Just expanses of nothing, darkness. From the streetlights that are flickering outside, I spot the edge of the bedframe, the lamp, the nightstand, the edge of the closet, the sliding, plexiglass doors to the balcony. Where someone's laying down, shaking.

It takes me a few moments of _holy fuck, holy fuck, what the hell happened, who is that, why are they on my balcony, are they hurt, jesus fucking christ- _before I notice the torn clothes, the mussed hair, the wings. The bright, bronze wings.

_OH, FUCK._

I can't possibly make my feet move any faster to sprint across the room, drag the door open, and kneel, searching for the face that belonged to the body.

His face is a little marred, cuts going across his cheeks, over his nose; his lip is split and flowing freely; his honey eyes are glazed over in confusion, the glasses askew, one of the hooks bent almost beyond recognition; his hair is cut at odd angles, and there's dirt smudged all across his face, but it's definitely him, it's definitely-

"Mikey, what-"

"Pete?"  
His voice is ragged.

I swallow. "Yeah?"

He coughs. A line of spit streams from the split in his lip, swirling with blood. "Pete... I... I didn't know where I was going, I was just flying, and this dumbfuck storm got in the way, and Pete?"

"...Yeah?"

"Can I die?"

A surge of everything from _nononononono_ to _oh, god, Mikey_ to tears to laughs to twists in my heart that I couldn't explain for the life of me courses through my veins. I immediately start trying to drag Mikey up to his feet. I get him to sit up, straight, but as soon as I try getting him on his feet, he cries out, weakly, and falls back against me, breathing heavily, muttering, "it hurts, Pete, oh, god, it _hurts_-"

"Mikey, for fuck's sake, you can do this, you can't die on me, not now-"

"I don't think I can die..."

_"Mikeyway!" _

I'm not expecting him to look me in the eye.

And I'm really not expecting him to smile.

I'm almost blown out of my skin when he asks:

"Pete, why do you care?"

I don't answer. I just coax every last drop of my soul into picking him up.

* * *

I don't realize the true extent of the damage that's been done to Mikey until I've dropped him in the bathtub and have turned on the light.

The first thing that my eyes meet are my arms. The spaces between the tattoos have been soaked with a sickening crimson that's started to seep into my skin. In a rush of panic, I look up, to the shaking body in the bathtub, to the glittering, bronze wings that are dulling with a rusting scarlet-

Holy fuck.

My stomach lurches, and I could puke, when I see that Mikey's right wing, the one stretched over the lip of the tub, is torn _open,_ the elbow joint letting his blood flow freely, like a crimson river, tainting the shine of them. The wound is surrounded with a ring of singed black, and whole clumps of the glittering threads have fallen out of the entire wing, exposing the tender, pink flesh of the wing underneath, of the sinew it covered, and _oh god_ _I am going to be _sick.

I steel my gut, bite my lip, and kneel myself right up next to the wing.

I try sliding my hand against the curve. The wing jerks away violently, but the owner's cries are more so.

"What happened?" I ask.

There's no answer. Only whimpering.

I repeat the question: "What happened?"

"...Lightning?"

"Fuck," I whisper to myself, and inspect what's left of Mikey's shirt. It's hardly a rag, even, the cloth barely clinging to the angel's slim form by the band of collar, the left sleeve, the majority of the chest, and a thread holding the back together.

It takes a little effort, but I manage to pull the back and collar apart until they rip, and and slide the rag off him, using it to dab at the wound. He winces, and suddenly, words like_infection_ and _contracted_ and _medications_ and _antibios_ pop into my head, and oh, shit, where's the rubbing alcohol?

I come back from ducking my head under the sink with an economy-sized bottle of peroxide and a huge wad of cotton. I soak the fluff, and try not to hesitate sticking the wad directly into the wound.

Immediately, Mikey lets out a tortured, aching scream, hand reaching out to clutch at the wound, and I drag the cotton ball out. He turns to look at me. There're tears streaming uninhibited from the corners of his eyes.

I reach out a hand for him to grab, the other wandering to the raw, pink sinew underneath. He gasps, but doesn't seem hurt. I tug him closer to me, not minding the fact that I'm streaking this shirt with blood.

"You're hands..." he whispers.

"What?"

"Warm... You're hands... Are... Warm..."

I look down at them.

Fuck.

As soon as I take my hands away, he starts whimpering. The tears flow a little more. I quickly move my hands back into place.

"Um... Mikey?" I clear my throat. "Just so you know, my hands are kind of smoking up right now-"

"It... Takes the pain away."

Oh, fucking great. My hands are now an angel's painkillers. An angel that I happen to share an apartment with.

Motherfucker.

It takes me a while for me to realize that the bleeding's stopped.

I reach out to brush Mikey's hair out from his forehead with my finger. "Are you alright? Do you need anything? Can I get you anything?"

He looks up. His warm, brown eyes aren't nearly as glazed over as they were when I found him on the balcony, but they still look glassy, a little lifeless. He laughs, humorlessly.

"What?"

When he looks at me, his smile is dizzy, almost possessed looking. "What the fuck was I thinking, Pete? Why did I do that?" His laugh starts to become diabolical. "I flew as high as I could, hoping that maybe someone would drag me back up. Like, I dunno, another angel? Like I thought I could ever be let back? And look at the fuck-up I became. I flew into a fucking storm, I had half my wing singed off by a fucking lighting bolt." he sighs. "Why haven't I already molted yet? Jeez, I've broken every rule I could to pose myself as a sinner, and I still have these fucking wings. I've been trying to get rid of them for six years, Pete, six years."

"Um..." I swallow. "I'm sorry-"

"No, no, it's not your fault." He sighs. "I just need one hell of a dose of aspirin."

"Should I get you a couple painkillers, or-"

"Just bring me the whole fucking bottle, that should be enough."

I sigh. "No, Mikey, you don't need to die to get rid of the pain."

"Well why the hell not?" He sits up, shakily, and fists my shirt, the shirt that's covered in his blood. "You know what kind of bullshit I've been putting up with since I was sixteen, Pete? I had enrolled myself in high school, and I forced my brother to create contacts for himself so I could use him as a way to enroll? To be able to somewhat pose as normal? And then, what? Tell people that I'm an orphan?" His manic laughing starts up again. "What the fuck was I thinking, those years. Booze, drugs, and sex was going to help every fucking problem I ever had in the history of my existence."'

As he comes down from his last bout of laughing, I sigh.

"I'm just going to get you a couple of ibuprofen and a glass of water. I'll be back."

As I shut the bathroom door behind me, I hear his broken tears again.

Filling the glass of water, once I get to the kitchen, is easy. Finding the painkillers is like searching for a kid in a fucking zoo. I look in every nook and cranny of the kitchen: behind the coffee pot and assorted creamers, under the sink, hell, even the microwave, before the last spot in the kitchen occurs to me, and oh, yeah, the spice cabinet. Where only one shelf actually has spices and everything else is filled to breaking point with tea, Airborne tablets, and maybe the fucking painkillers.

When I grab the white and blue plastic bottle, though, I find a slip of paper falling out with it.

In looped, scrawled letters, on a torn piece of thick, lightly textured paper, is a phone number, and the words: _call when you need it. ~G_

Who...?

Oh.

I get myself back into the bathroom, with the pills and water. As soon as I kneel next to the bathtub, close to Mikey's head, he reaches for the pills. As I hand him the little, tan tablets, I slip the glass of water into his other palm.

"I was wondering... Um... Would it be okay if I called Gerard?"

Mikey nods. "Tell him to bring bandages."

* * *

As soon as I hear a knock on the door, I let him in.

Today, Gerard dons a shirt for some band I've never heard of, under a high-necked, black, industrial-looking jacket, and gray jeans, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His black hair is tangled and sticking up at every end, and his hazel-green eyes seem feral.

"Where's my brother?" He asks, stepping beyond the threshold before I can even get out of the way.

"Uh... Bathroom?"

Gerard swallows severely, and nods. "Take me to him."

I lead him through the apartment, and as soon as he sees the lights on in the bathroom, he strides in, dropping the bag on the floor and falling to his knees at the lip of the bathtub. I creep into the room, and watch.

"Mikey... Mikey, what happened?"

"He got hit by lightning," I call out. Mikey just nods agreement.

"Shit." Gerard opens his bag, and looks up at me. "Have you tried cleaning the wound?"

"...I tried, but he only seemed worse, and..."

"You couldn't do that to him."

I nod, barely hissing out a 'yeah'.

He smiles, sadly. "I understand. But can you get me some more cotton, and maybe some antiseptic?"

I retrieve more cotton as I point to the peroxide. "Go crazy."

"Awesome." As I throw him the cotton, he opens the large bottle, and starts pouring the thin, clear liquid onto the fluff.

I turn to watch Mikey. His eyes are wrinkled shut, and his eyebrows are scrunching in pain. I see him struggle to open his eyes, but when he does, he makes eye contact with me, and winces as he stretches out a hand over the tub, widens his fingers.

I kneel next to Gerard, and grip Mikey's hand.

His lips curve into a smile.

Gerard gives me a furrowed, sideways look, but shrugs as he dabs at the edges of the wound. Mikey hisses a little, but I squeeze his hand, and he relaxes. Gerard starts opening his bag, discarding the bloodied cotton on the edge of the tub, and pulls out gauze, pins, and a few elastic bandages. He grips both of the main bones of Mikey's wing, and bends them a little, before sighing relief. "His bones aren't broken or dislocated or anything, but the flesh is pretty badly burned. I'm just gonna wrap it, okay?"

"Uh, sure," I say.

Gerard nods, and unrolls a thick, wide band of gauze, folding it over a few times before bringing it to his teeth and ripping. he presses the gauze into the wound, and uses the leftover to bind the pad of gauze to the wound. Getting out a few pins and the elastic bandages, he keeps on talking. "So, I'm wrapping it up right now, but he's gonna have to walk around with a loose wing for about half a week before he can furl his wings. And he's not gonna be able to fly for at least two months. Thank god."

"Okay." I wave my hand over his eyes. He doesn't react. "Yeah, he's out." I turn to him. "Where do I move him to?"

"Your bed, it's closer. I'll help you lift him."

"Right now, or...?"

"In a little. Lemme finish the bandages and clean up some of his feathers."

"Okay."

I watch as his fingers expertly tie the bandages and pin them, as he hooks his fingers to comb the bent feathers.

"Hey, Gerard?"

"Yeah?"

"Mikey said..." I sigh. "Mikey said that things didn't hurt as much when I held his hand. But... I've heard..." I slump. "Gerard, am I a Demon?"

He reaches out to squeeze my wrist. "Congratulations for figuring it out."

I nod, letting the words 'I am a Demon' wash over me. I find myself completely unsurprised by the revelation. It almost feels like a blanket, like the knowledge is oddly comforting.

"But... How was I taking the pain away?"

Gerard smiles sadly. "You're not quite a Demon. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, in this form."

"What do you mean?"

"What I'm saying is, Pete, is that you probably did something in your life as a demon." He shucks off his jacket, dropping it on top of the bag, and I see his wings ruffle a little, but not unfurl. "Who knows? Maybe you disrespected authority. Maybe you tried passing as human. Maybe... Well, who gives a shit? Either way, you ended up here." He shrugged. "I wouldn't know what would have happened to you, but in the end, you were transferred here, as a human. Or, seemingly."

"Seemingly?"

He smiles. "Do normal people react to things that scare them by shooting fire from their fingertips?" I hang my head. "Hey, nothing's wrong with it, unless you killed someone."

"Haha." I look at Mikey, curled up in the tub. He seems to have stopped bleeding as much. I can't help but reach my fingers out, and brush some of his sandy brown hair out of his forehead, straighten his glasses a little more on the sloping bridge of his nose.

"...There's something else you need to tell me, isn't there?"

I bite my lip.

"Okay, so..." I swallow air, muster every last ounce of my courage left, and look Gerard in the eye. "When... When I found Mikey, and I got him in here, and started cleaning him up... I was touching him, and he said... He said my hands were warm."

"Shit."

"So, I took them away, but then he looked a lot worse, and... He told me... He told me that my hands were taking away his pain." The _what do you know_ passes through the bathroom, unsaid.

Gerard looks utterly lost in thought for a few moments. His dark hair swishes across his cheekbones, his wings shift with nerves; you can see the wisps of thought traveling through his head.

Finally, he looks up.

"...I don't know too much about Demons, especially Demons in cases like yours. I mean, hell, I'm an angel, if I haven't already stressed that enough." He smiles, just a little, slightly sad, slightly hopeful. "But... From what I know... For all the pain you were meant to cause... That there is a degree that you can take pain away. For all the wounds you cut..."

"...I'm given the surgeon's needle and thread to sew it up."

The smile that reaches into his eyes says more than enough.

There's a chill silence in the room for a few heartbeats. Mikey stirs, nudging his body to the right; on the occasion, I have to guide him back into his original position to protect his wing.

"Gerard?"

"Yeah, Pete."

"How did you know how to fix Mikey's wing?"

He just sighs.

"Pete, I'm just glad that you never saw how Mikey turned out from his experience Falling. It would have broken your heart clean in two."


End file.
